


La plus belle des ruses

by unpopcultural



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon complaint... to a point, Drug Use, Gen, Inception - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Surrealism, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, fake suicide, nothing is what it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpopcultural/pseuds/unpopcultural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock expects to wake up in Baker Street, ready to hunt down Jim Moriarty for the last time. Instead, he awakens in a mental hospital. According to Mycroft and the doctor, the events of the past five years never happened. They tell Sherlock that his memories are an elaborate hallucination brought on by drug addiction and mental illness. </p><p>The good thing: Moriarty may not exist outside of Sherlock's mind. The bad thing: Neither may John.</p><p>What is real, and what is a lie? Can Sherlock trust anyone? Most importantly, what will the mind do without his heart?</p><p>-------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>"La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu'il n'existe pas."<br/>-Charles Baudelaire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inferno: Part 1

Even before opening my eyes, I know I'm not at home. I am in a hospital. Three things immediately bring me to this conclusion:

     First: Right now, I am dressed in something scratchy. I always sleep in the nude. I'm not embarrassed by it; I simply prefer not to deal with clothing when I'm asleep. What even is the point? John always tells me that someone could break in and I'd have to fight them naked, but I think it would put the element of surprise on my side.

     Second: Nothing here smells like Baker Street. Baker Street sometimes smells wonderful (breakfast, coffee, John's laundry soap), and sometimes smells horrendous (my experiments, rotting food left in the refrigerator, Anderson's presence), but here there is none of that. Everything smells antiseptic, like the mortuary and lab at Bart's.

      Third: Strange voices from an adjacent room or hallway. Two men, one woman. All British. Not familiar with one another: clipped, short sentences; professional tone; medical jargon. Nurses and doctors.

Conclusion: I am in a hospital.

I open my eyes to confirm this. Of course, I'm right. I wish someone had heard my internal deductions, but alas...

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" The nurse is short and portly; her hair is wrapped up in a bun. Her name-tag reads VICTORIA MILLER.

I don't answer her right away. I'm biting my lip, eyes scanning the hospital room. I realize that this isn't a short-term room, not at all. This room has _character_ , looks lived in. Across from me, there is a shelf full of my belongings: numerous folded pants and multicolored shirts, my coat, stacks of books. They wouldn't have sent my books if I hadn't been here for a while, or planned to be here for a while.

Another thought: I feel absolutely fine, physically. I almost wish for pain, as the alternate reason for my being in a hospital is far worse.

"Why do I not remember how I got here?" I ask finally. The skin under my hair begins to sweat.

The nurse, Victoria Miller, is not surprised in the slightest. She pats my knee and I flinch.

"This happens often?" I ask before she can reply. "Me, forgetting how I got here?"

Miller nods. "And you're always able to figure that part out before I say anything," she says with a slight laugh.

"How long have I been here?"

"About a month and a half." She checks my chart. "Since the thirteenth of August, to be exact."

I frown at her. "Excuse me?" It was December when I stepped off the plane, December when Moriarty's face appeared on every television in London. "If I had been here for a month and a half, it would be February."

"It's October, dear," the nurse says sympathetically.

I cannot do much more than stare. Finally, I manage to ask, "Do you have my phone?"

"It's in the drawer of the bedside table, dear. I have to be off to the next patient, but Dr. Morris will be here shortly, and I'm sure he will be able to help clear things up. All right, then?"

I nod and begin rummaging through the drawer. Her footsteps disappear into the hallway. My hand brushes through sheets of paper, napkins, pens, before resting on a smooth lump. I pull out the mobile phone and stare at it. It _is_ my phone, but not one that I've used any time recently. The technology is outdated. When was the last time I even looked at this phone? Where is my newer one?

I shift the other contents of the drawer around, but this is the only phone. Well, fine. Something must have happened to my other one. I power it on and unlock it. My eyes immediately dart to the date: 2 OCT 2009. So it _is_ October? Where have the last nine m--

2009\. _2009._

I utter a short laugh. Damn phone is past its prime.

I crawl to my hands and knees on the bed to take the chart hanging off the edge of it. Again, I feel fine physically, which scares me. My eyes quickly scan the chart. I swallow. Drugs. I knew it. Drugs have landed me in hospital yet again. I grimace. Besides my short relapse after John's wedding (which was part of a _plan_ , I'll continue to remind everyone), I've been more or less clean. When did I start using again? When could I have possibly had time?

My eyes widen as I continue to read. In addition to detoxification and rehabilitation, which is already wonderful by itself, I am here for episodes of forgetfulness and delusion. Possibly brought on by hallucinogenic drugs, but possibly the result of an underlying mental issue. Interesting. I never use hallucinogenics. And mental illness? Please. My mind is pristine. Still... how would I explain this morning?

I look at the dates on the chart and nearly drop it. Today's date: 2/10/09.

I toss the chart to the end of the bed like it's hot. I scrabble for my phone, which has gotten twisted up with the sheets. I find it and quickly thumb through my contact list, my hands shaking. I have to call John. I don't care if he's with Mary or even if his bloody child has been born by now; I just need to hear his voice. I scroll past _Dad_ and _D.I. Lestrade_ and think I've made a mistake when I reach _Mummy_ and _Mycroft Holmes_. I run through the alphabet dazedly like a stupid child, half-convinced that I mistakenly thought _J_ came before _M_.

"Sherlock!" A slender man in a white coat enters the room. He's balding, with a bushy gray mustache and thick spectacles.

"What the hell is going on?" I can't help but shout. The phone slips from my hands and clatters to the tiled floor.

Unfazed, the man (Dr. Morris, I'm guessing) pulls a chair to the side of the bed and sits there. I'm a sweaty mess, sticking to my hospital gown, but he takes one of my hands in his and smiles a grandfatherly smile. I don't feel much more relaxed.

"Before you get too upset, I want you to know that every time these episodes of forgetfulness happen, your memories are fully restored within an hour or two. It helps if you don't panic, Sherlock. Just relax and your memories will come back."

I shake off his hands. "It's not forgetfulness I'm worried about, _sir_ ," I say scathingly. "What I want to know is why my bloody phone and chart say it's October 2009 instead of December 2014!"

I watch his eyes carefully. This is new. I can tell. He's surprised, but he tries to hide it behind a cough and a friendly smile. "Well, Sherlock, because it _is_ October 2009." He stutters slightly. "N-now tell me a bit about this, Sherlock. You remember it being 2014, you're saying?"

"Quite distinctly," I say, over-enunciating, clicking my _T_ s, hoping to intimidate him and simultaneously convince him that I'm perfectly sane. "Also, I want to talk to John Watson, and someone deleted his name from my phone. Will you please explain why one of your staff would tamper with my private property?"

"I assure you that no one has touched your phone." Dr. Morris frowns. "But I would like to get back to--"

"Yes, the issue of it being 2014," I continue for him. "I am quite sure of what year it is, so if you would stop toying with me to elicit whatever response you're aiming for, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Sherlock, we are not--"

"Of course you are," I snap. "Whatever drug I happened to ingest, accidentally or not, did not have the ability to generate five years worth of memories. Now, if you won't let me talk to John Watson, then I'd like to speak to my brother."

The doctor tries to protest, but I yell, "Mycroft Holmes! Get him here now!"

"Hardly necessary to shout, little brother," comes a voice from the door. "Especially when you knew I was visiting today."


	2. Inferno: Part 2

Mycroft and Dr. Morris stare at me. We've been arguing for the past half hour, and I'm tired of it and decided that I don't want to talk anymore. I sit in my bed, arms crossed over the coarse hospital gown, glaring back mulishly.

Mycroft looks weary. He also looks (dare I admit it?) younger than I remember, the lines on his face shallower, his hair fuller. I don't care what they _tell_ me; anyone can lie. What I do rely on are my senses, and right now they are making me very nervous.

A sudden thought strikes me and I wiggle one of my hands under the neck of the hospital gown. I brush a hand over the left side of my chest, searching for the new, yet already familiar, lump of scar from where Mary shot me. The skin is smooth. I irrationally feel the other side. Nothing. I brush a hand over my back, feeling for scars under the fabric of the gown. None.

Mycroft sees the doubt in my face before Dr. Morris does. I see Mycroft's eyes narrow and his mouth twitch as he deduces me. _We've got him, now_ , the eyes tell me.

I address the question to Mycroft: "How could my mind have fabricated such an elaborate scenario?" I try to keep my voice level, though it feels as if I've been filled with helium, like I could float to the ceiling and burst through it unscathed. I would very much like to do that right now.

Mycroft shrugs slightly. "You're a genius, Sherlock. I'm sure your mind is capable of quite astounding things."

"I don't have a history of hallucinations, Mycroft."

"Ah, but you do have a history of mental illness, do you not?"

"Apples to oranges," I mutter. "And as for the drugs, I don't _feel_ like I'm going through withdrawal." Of course, I've been here long enough (if what they say is true) to be past the worst symptoms, but I am running out of arguments.

"The reason you don't feel the effects of withdrawal is because you've been here for an extended period and the worst of the physical side effects have passed," Dr. Morris confirms. "Sherlock, what we think you're experiencing is a disorder brought on by drug use, not by heredity. As you've already figured out, you have been prone to periods of forgetfulness, as well as extended periods of inactivity that resemble comas. Paranoia is a common experience among former users of cocaine when experiencing withdrawal, so we think your condition might be linked to that."

All of this is going down easy, at least in the forefront of my mind. It makes sense, more or less. But there's a problem:

"John Watson," I say suddenly. "Mycroft, you _do_ remember John Watson, correct?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "A client of yours?"

"No! He's my... friend." I swallow. "You must remember him, Mycroft. How could you not?"

Mycroft just blinks. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know who that is."

"Moriarty," I say, watching Mycroft closely.

A flicker of recognition seems to pass over Mycroft's face, but maybe it's my imagination. "Excuse me?"

"Never mind," I mutter. "Am I free to leave if I so choose?"

"Well..." Dr. Morris begins.

"I promise that I am neither a danger to myself or others."

Dr. Morris hesitates. "It's just that while you may not currently be a danger, Sherlock, we worry that your instability could potentially put you in a different frame of mind."

I frown and then take a deep breath. "I'd like a moment alone to process this, please."

I can tell by their easy acceptance that there must be a camera or monitor of some sort in the room.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Mycroft says.

They exit quietly and leave me alone. I stagger to my feet and test my legs. They're a little stiff, but nothing serious _._ Apparently no atrophy from the comas.

They haven't closed the door, but I pull an outfit from the shelf and begin to dress anyway. The smooth silkiness of the shirt feels heavenly after the hospital gown. I button my trousers and casually glance out the window. It's not Bart's Hospital, but there are others in London. I'm not familiar with the scenery. I peer down. Second floor. I would be able to survive the jump...

I sit down heavily on the bed. October 2009. Three months before I met John. I don't even live on Baker Street yet. I chew on a nail. Baker Street... I need to see the interior of the flat. If it really is 2009, then I've never seen the inside of 221B. If I go there and the flat resembles my memory of it, then I could not have possibly fabricated it in my mind.

My heart pounding, I reach for my mobile phone and find _Martha Hudson_ in the contacts. She picks up after three rings.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Do you remember me?"

A small gasp of delight. "Oh, Sherlock! Of course I remember you. How is everything?"

"I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson, and hope you are the same." I lean against the back of the bed. "I happened to be walking by Baker Street the other day and I noticed that you're looking to rent the upstairs flat."

"You did?" She pauses. "Well, I am, but I haven't put up the sign yet. How did you know?"

I curse under my breath. "The, er, man at Speedy's mentioned it." Then I realize that she's confirmed that my knowledge of the supposed future is correct. She _is_ renting the flat.

"Ah, I see. Why do you ask? Are you interested in it?"

"In fact, I am," I say. "I wondered if I could take a look at it."

"Are you free tomorrow morning around ten?"

 

Having made my plans with Mrs. Hudson, I look up Mike Stamford's number on the Bart's website. It takes me to voicemail.

"Hello Stamford. This is Sherlock Holmes. From Bart's. Anyway, I wondered if you could help me out with something. I'm looking for a man who happens to be an old friend of yours. Name of John Watson? If you could let me know if you have any way to contact him, I would appreciate it."

I sit back in bed again. How have I spent my days cooped up here, if I really have been here for nearly two months? Then again, losing my memory would likely keep things interesting. I slide off the bed and slowly circle the room, looking for cameras. The thought crosses my mind to somehow cause a power outage and render the camera useless, but as I am in a hospital with other patients, I hope to do things less dangerously.

Aha! A combination audio/video baby monitor, nestled among my books on the top shelf. I don't touch it, try not to look at it directly. Instead, I take my coat from the lower shelf and bundle it in my arms.

My current options:

     First: Wait until nightfall to make my escape. This will give me the cover of darkness. However, they will likely lock the door at night, and I will be forced to use the window. Although I could survive the fall, it is still high enough to potentially cause damage to my limbs. Not ideal.

     Second: Simply walk out of the room and hope that no one finds me suspicious or recognizes me. Possible but unlikely, as I am apparently a familiar face around here. Also, Dr. Morris or some staff member is likely waiting right outside the room. They wouldn't have left it open otherwise.

     Third: Run like hell. Perhaps more suspicious than walking, but also more efficient, especially because I am fast. _Very_ fast if I am indeed five years younger than I was yesterday.

The most ideal option seems fairly obvious. I slip on my coat, shove the phone in a pocket, and prepare to run.


	3. Inferno: Part 3

It takes the hospital staff a few minutes to realize what's happening. There's shouting behind me once I near the bend in the hallway. My legs pump, my heart drums erratically. The beat's been irregular since I got shot. Interesting that it would be happening now. I store that fact in my Mind Palace for later, even though I suspect the Palace to be somewhat corrupted.

The lift is too slow so I take the stairs, throwing myself down them two at a time.

Before I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I hear a snapping sound like a bone breaking, and there's a pain in my head like an intense muscle spasm. The next thing I know, I'm outside, standing in some dirty little alleyway with a dumpster. It's raining. People walk past me on the wider main street with umbrellas and coat collars turned up. I blink water out of my eyes. I don't even remember reaching the ground floor of the hospital, let alone coming here... wherever here is. I realize that my coat is soaked through, as if I've been in the rain for hours. I shiver.

I walk to the main street and look around. I recognize the surroundings; I'm about five blocks away from Baker Street. My body and mind numbed from the chill, I head toward my home.

I check my phone for the time. It's almost three in the afternoon. Five hours since I was in the hospital room. My breath catches. _Does a sane mind lose five hours, Sherlock?_ Before I return the phone to my pocket, I notice the voicemail icon glowing at me. Fortunately, I remember the password.

"Hi, Sherlock. It's Mike. I got your call about that person you're trying to find, but I can't say I've heard of anyone named John Watson. I went to school with a John _Walter_ , if that's who you meant. But probably not. You're never mistaken." He laughs in my ear. "Sorry, mate. I'll let you know if the name rings a bell later. Bye."

I lean against the outside of a Thai restaurant, shivering. I close my eyes and try to imagine John. I think first of his jumper, the beige one he wears often. My mind fills in the outline of his trousers and shoes, colors in his hands. I hesitate before focusing on his face. I'm terrified I won't be able to remember it, but it comes to me all at once: the dark blue eyes, the wary smile, every little wrinkle and freckle. I sigh and open my eyes, feeling warmth flood from my head to my toes. John is real. John is  _real_. I despise it when people say they can  _feel_ something to be true, but somehow I can feel this. Also, if John Watson were just a fantasy, then surely I wouldn't have imagined Mary to complicate the situation. Then again, I think wryly, I've always been a bit of a masochist.

Passersby have started to stare at me, so I begin heading toward Baker Street again. I feel heavy, waterlogged, like each step I take requires ten times the effort it should. It almost feels like being in one of those nightmares in which you cannot run, no matter how hard you try.

When I finally reach Baker Street, the sky has darkened. I squint at my phone. 5:30? How could it have taken two and a half hours to walk five blocks?

I save my deductions for later and knock on the front door. It takes Mrs. Hudson nearly four minutes to answer it.

"Sherlock? I thought you were coming tomorrow morning."

I look her in the eye. "I seem to require your assistance, Mrs. Hudson."

She takes in my wretched appearance and opens the door wider. "Come in."

Mrs. Hudson forces me to take a hot shower, promising that she'll hang up my coat to dry and make us some tea while I'm showering. I'm anxious to see 221B, but I can't deny that I'm pale and shaking.

I pull the curtain around the tub and turn on the water. My muscles relax under the warm jets. Thoughts nudge me, irate at being ignored, but I keep my mind focused. Mrs. Hudson's soap smells like vanilla, but I use it anyway.

I towel off and dress carefully, examining myself in the bathroom mirror. Do I look younger? Yes, that's undeniable, but not any more disturbing than lacking my scars. My mind processes this and reaches several conclusions.

Conclusions:

     1. I am--

No! Stop thinking. I do not want to deduce possible conclusions right now.

_That's because you don't want to admit that certain things are true._

Piss off.

_You could handle being insane, but losing John would be unacceptable._

I believe I told you to piss off.

"Sherlock, are you okay in there?" Mrs. Hudson asks through the door. "Did you say something?"

"No. I'm absolutely fine," I reply. "I'll be out in one minute."

I finish dressing and Mrs. Hudson leads me to a seat at the kitchen table. She places a cup of tea and plate of biscuits in front of me. In October of 2009, I was not as close with Mrs. Hudson as I am now, but she is treating me like a long-lost son.

Only when I've made progress on the biscuits does Mrs. Hudson allow me to talk. "All right, Sherlock. So what have you gotten yourself into?"

I swallow a mouthful of tea. "I need to see the upstairs. 221B."

Her forehead wrinkles. "So you aren't really interested in living there?"

"Oh, I am. I have multiple reasons for wanting to see it. It is unoccupied at the moment, correct?"

She nods. "Yes. My last tenants moved out a few weeks ago. Well, all right then. Let's take a look."

Mrs. Hudson leads me upstairs and unlocks the door to 221B. I hold my breath while she swings open the door.

I exhale slowly when the room is revealed. "It's exactly how I remember it," I whisper.

"You've been here before?"

I ignore her and make my way around the living room. It's empty now, devoid of furniture and books and carpets, but the sight of the familiar wallpaper patterns makes me giddy. I run my hand over the mantle.

"Mrs. Hudson, yes!" I exclaim, grasping one of her hands. "You do not know how much you have helped! I--" Movement in one of the windows makes me stop.

Mrs. Hudson replies, but I do not hear her. My body seizes; my throat closes. I take a step back, my heart thrumming.

Through the rain-streaked glass of the left window, the window that is two stories high, the pale face of a man is watching me.

 


	4. Inferno: Part 4

"Do you see that?"

I look toward Mrs. Hudson only for a second, but the impossible face is gone by the time I look back up at the window.

"See what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson glances around. "Did my tenants leave something? I've a suspicion that the one was always looking at obscene materials while--"

"No," I interrupt. "There was someone..." I stride to the other side of the room and peer through the window, seeing only the rain-slicked street below. My breath fogs on the glass. "I must have been seeing things."

I stand there, looking out at the street, unaware for a moment that Mrs. Hudson is speaking.

"--rain for so long, he got pneumonia, and the fever made him see all sorts of strange things," she carries on.

"I don't have a fever, Mrs. Hudson."

I turn around and squint at the landlady, assessing how much I can rely on this Mrs. Hudson that I simultaneously know and do not know.

"Well, was I able to help you with what you needed, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks. Her eyes are gentle.

"Yes." I hesitate before saying more.

She heads toward the stairwell, but stops and turns to me. "Sherlock, do you need to stay the night here?"

A swallow a relieved sigh. "If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Hudson, then I'd be most grateful to." A smile twitches on my face. Thank God for this woman. She may not be able to deduce people as I do, but her capacity for knowing when others are in need is unmatched.

"There's a bed one of the tenants left in the upstairs room. I'll find some sheets for it."

I nod in thanks. Mrs. Hudson returns with an armful of sheets and blankets.

I take them from her. "Mrs. Hudson, can I ask another favor of you?"

She raises her eyebrows. "That depends on the favor."

I straighten myself and address her with a calm stare. "If someone comes by asking for me, then tell them that I looked at the flat and left. Okay? I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm used to lying to people." She winks. "How about you turn in? You look exhausted."

 

I'm lying on the bed in John's room. I never spent much time in here during our period of cohabitation, but I recognize the layout of the small room, the green wallpaper and white door. When I close my eyes, I think I can smell John. I know it doesn't make any logical sense, but I inhale the scent into my lungs. What I'm smelling right now is John's home scent: soap, antiperspirant, frying bacon. He smells different after coming back from work at the office, more like sanitizer and plastic. I prefer his home scent to his work scent. My favorite of all, however, is how he smells after a case spent running around London: a heady mix of sweat, secondhand cigarette smoke, and nighttime air.

I reach for my phone to set the alarm. It is ten now, much later than I expected. I'm not sure if it was another time jump or I just dozed off. I set the alarm to six in the morning. 

I gaze at the dark ceiling and envision John again. His image swims before me, over-bright and wavering like a reflection in a pool.

"John." I bite my lip. "John, I'll find you and I'll tell you the truth when I do." I swallow through a hard lump that has formed in my throat. "I'm sorry that I haven't before. You haven't made it easy... Nor have I, I suppose, but I'm an intellectual genius, not a sentimental one. I'm not required to know how these things work."

John looks down at me sternly. I sigh and close my eyes, allowing my best friend to flicker into blackness.

 

"Oi, Sherlock. Wake up."

I lurch to a sitting position and have my hands wrapped around the person's neck before I'm fully awake.

"Stop it, stop it! I ain't doing nothing!" a man's voice squeals, reverberating through my hands.

My eyes adjust. Someone is sitting on the bed. By the size of his face and neck, I can tell that he is a short, slight man. His face is so pale it nearly glows. The moonlight that sprinkles through the window glitters in his eyes.

"You're the man from the window," I whisper. My hands tighten around the damp skin of his throat. "How did you get up there? A harness? Stepladder?"

The man emits a squeak and scrabbles at my fingers. "Please, let go," he gasps.

I loosen my grip. "Talk. Now."

The man sucks in a few breaths. "All right. But whatever you do, Sherlock, do not turn on the light. They can't know I'm 'ere. It's easier to 'ide in the dark. The program can't register things moving about in the darkness very well. Especially if it thinks you're sleeping."

"What are you talking about?" I snap. "How do you know who I am? Did Mycroft send you?"

Despite my choke-hold, the man is able to laugh and adjust himself so that he's sitting cross-legged on the bed. The moonlight recedes behind a cloud and we are left in total blackness. "I _wish_ Mycroft sent me! Good old _normal_  Mycroft. This is quite a bit more irregular than Mycroft. No, Sherlock, let's just call me a friend, all right?"

"Most certainly not 'all right.' What's your name?"

"I don't 'ave one."

Of course he can't see it in the dark, but I roll my eyes. "Fascinating." I release my hold on him and cross my arms. "If you don't explain yourself, I will throw you out the window and you will possibly die. Which option would you prefer? Truth... or death?"

"It doesn't matter to me."

"What?"

"Listen, Sherlock. I'm trying to save you 'ere. If you choose to throw me out a window, just know that I'll be fine. Because I don't really exist."

I laugh shortly. "I really am mad."

"You're not mad, Sherlock, just confused. Don't get offended; anyone would be confused."

I frown. "I am not  _anyone_."

I can't see his facial expressions, but for some reason I get the sense that he's smiling. "You've been experiencing some odd things, Sherlock, right? Missing time you can't account for? Losing memories, or gaining false memories?"

"You've read my medical file," I say calmly. "Congratulations. It's rather a primary school achievement, but color me impressed."

"Do you remember John?"

The blood freezes in my veins. My chest is cold. "Yes." I cannot manage to say anything more.

The man stiffens, as if he hears something. I cock my head but hear nothing other than the wind and the heavy creaking of the house.

"All right, Sherlock, listen carefully. To get out of this, you need to kill yourself. I'm not talking about suicide, just to be clear. You won't be in any real danger. You need to shock your system enough to wake up, and then--"

"Wake up?" I repeat. "What is this bullshit? I--"

The moon returns from behind a cloud. The man grabs my shoulders and leans his face close to mine. I expect the warmness of breath or the stench of human sweat, but other than the fuzzy image of his face and the pressure on my shoulders, there is no indication that he is there.

"Just do it, Sherlock. Unless you want to live like this. Your choice."

He leaps up from the bed and slips into the darkness. I hear the door close behind him, but no footsteps sound from the stairs.


	5. Inferno: Part 5

I sit in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen with a phone book spread across the table and a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson has stepped out to do some grocery shopping, as I've eaten all the biscuits. My finger traces a long line of Watsons.

I am deliberately refusing to think about the intruder. I've faked my death once, and despite the man's claims that nothing bad would happen to me, I don't relish the thought of trying it again. So here I am with the phone book.

I don't know the names of John's parents, as they died long before we met, so I focus on the J's and H's (for Harriet) in the list of Watsons. I've only met Harry once and didn't much care for her, but I would take her out for dinner and dancing if she could tell me where John was.

The responses to my calls are disheartening; Many of the initials stand for Jacks and Harolds and Jessicas. Even among the actual Johns and Harriets I have no luck:

"Yeah, this is John Watson. What's it to you, arsehole? No, I've never been in the army. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"You looking for John? Mmm, yeah, he's actually at work. But _I'm_ free, darling. What are you wearing?"

"Harriet speaking. My brother? Liam, you mean? What do you want with him?"

"Doctor? Hah! I wish I was a bloody doctor."

 

I toss the phone book to the floor and groan. John's voice slithers into my head.

_"He's not my date."_

I tilt my head back and close my eyes.

_John's hand on my knee. "I don't mind."_

"Stop distracting me, John. I'm busy trying to find you," I mutter.

I enter into the Mind Palace hesitantly. I'm not sure what I'm going to find there.

The main hallway looks normal. It's quite empty, but that doesn't necessarily mean something is wrong. It's often empty during periods in which I haven't had a case for a while. I try to open the door to my left but the doorknob won't turn. I try the door to my right and it is similarly stuck.

"No no no no."

I run to the next door, and the next. None of them will open for me. At the end of the hallway is a spiral staircase. I take the steps two at a time. It gets darker and darker as I proceed; the top of the staircase is swaddled in blackness. I move forward with my hands extended in front of me, reaching for anything.

I hear laughter. It sounds like Moriarty's, like Magnussen's, like Mary's, all mixed together to create some kind of personal hell.

I collide with the firm body of another person.

A familiar voice: "You're not listening to me, Sherlock. I told you that there's only one way to get out of 'ere."

 

I open my eyes with a start. Mrs. Hudson is back from the store, staring at me.

"Hello, Sherlock." She sets down her bags on the table and eyes the phone book on the floor. "Are you all right?"

I look at her bleakly. "I don't know."

Mrs. Hudson begins to put away the groceries.

"Why won't you listen to me, Sherlock?" The voice, a man's, comes from behind me. I twist around.

"Who's there?" I shout.

"Do you hear someone?" Mrs. Hudson asks, her hand suspended in the air between the bag and the cupboard.

"Shh!" I hush her. "I'm trying to listen."

I stiffen when I hear something rustling deeper in the house. A man steps into the room from around the corner. It is the man from last night, and in the daylight I see him in all his horrid detail. He is as pale as ever, completely hairless, with watery gray eyes. His shirtless frame is small and emaciated, his ribs jutting out from under his milky skin. Around his waist, a ragged black belt holds up dusty gray trousers. He walks toward me like a corpse, shambling and jerky, but his eyes are bright and alive.

"Don't be afraid of me, Sherlock."

"I'm not afraid," I whisper.

Mrs. Hudson is silent and I don't bother looking back at her. It is as if this man and I have entered our own private world.

"Yeah, you're scared," the nameless man asserts. "That's why I look this way."

"What do you mean?"

He is suddenly upon me. I flinch and raise my hands to cover my face. The man grasps one of my wrists and holds it, but gently. His fingers are cold.

I want to pull away, but I am frozen. I slowly lower my hands. The man keeps his hold on my wrist and stares at me without saying a word. I take a shaky breath and realize that the man's hand is becoming warmer. I glance down at it in surprise and notice that the man's torso has become plumper, and that there is more color in his cheeks.

"What..." I trail off.

Suddenly, his grip is strong. "You won't listen to me, so I've gotta be more assertive."

I hear a snapping sound and for a moment, I can't see anything. I feel my hair blow back from my face. When I can see again, the man and I are standing on the roof of Bart's hospital where Moriarty and I stood years ago, or years from now. The air is cold and damp, and stings my face.

I look toward the man in astonishment. The man is noticeably fatter and redder in the cheeks. A bit of stubble has begun to sprout from his face and head.

"This is not logical," I say helplessly. "This is impossible. This can't be  _real_."

"Now you've got it!" The man gazes down at the street below. "I figure since you've done it before here, it'll be less scary this way."

"What? No! I'm not jumping off Bart's," I say. "I'm not. I didn't even do it before. Surely you know that, if you're just in my head."

The man shrugs. "Don't ask me, Sherlock."

He climbs up on the ledge and turns to face me. His stomach protrudes now, is that of a fat man. "I'm telling you, Sherlock, if you ever wanna get outta here, you need to follow my lead." He grins toothily. "I know I said last night that it was your choice and all, but I thought you'd be more willing to listen than you ended up being! I ain't gonna live the rest of my life here, so... yeah. It comes to this." He winks. "Just follow my lead, mate."

With that, he tilts himself backward and promptly disappears from my field of vision, falling down to the street below.

 


	6. Purgatorio: Part 1

It begins to rain hard. The cold water snaps me to reality and heightens my senses. I warily step closer to the edge of the roof and peer down. There is no body anywhere I can see, no ogling group of alarmed bystanders, no John with a phone pressed to his face, pleading with me to not jump.

I press my hand to my chest where there should be a scar but is none. My heart thuds beneath my palm.

The last time I was here, it was James Moriarty urging me down, and I did not want to. But do I want to jump now? I swallow thickly. Is this a world without Moriarty? Perhaps, perhaps not.It would be difficult for me to confirm his existence here. Even if he does exist, how am I supposed to find him? Granted, I am a genius, but so is he... And with Mycroft after me, time is not on my side. If Moriarty is not real, surely it would be a better world without him, albeit a less interesting one. Intelligent criminals like Moriarty do not come around often in one's lifetime, after all. I sigh. Despite Moriarty's attraction as a challenge to a mind like mine, he threatened my friends, and that is unacceptable. I _can_ handle a world without Moriarty. I might enjoy it, even.

But a world without John Watson? That would be unacceptable.

I step upon the ledge and sway slightly. Some people below have noticed me and are pointing upward, shouting things. I ignore them. To me, they are ants. Just ants.

_What if Moriarty set this all up?_ A voice in the back of my mind asks. It sounds like Mycroft.  _What if he wants you to die, for real this time? He has somehow created this world, like a stage, and you are the unfortunate actor. You don't have a plan_ this  _time, Sherlock._

I frown. "No. No, that's not Moriarty's style. He would want the credit, to let me know that he won the game. He doesn't hide his face this way. Even if Magnussen was his puppet, Moriarty came through in the end, showing himself on every screen in London. Am I right?" My voice gets louder with every word, demanding the air for a response.

The voice in my head does not reply, so I shout, "Am I right?" I pause. "Am I  _right_?"

Hesitation strikes me. I am about to take a step back when I hear distinctly, clearly, John's voice in my ear: "Do it, Sherlock."

"John!" I whip my head to the side even though I know John isn't really there, at least not physically.

I clench my fists so hard that my nails draw blood. I despise crying, hardly ever do it for real, but I feel hot tears mingling on my cheeks with the cool rain. I inhale deeply and look away from the quickly-growing mass of ants below. I stare into the cloudy sky and then close my eyes.

Instead of jumping, I simply lean forward and allow gravity to carry me down.

I can't help but open my eyes as I pinwheel down. The sidewalk is fast approaching and I cannot help but tense myself up, every muscle in my body screaming  _no, no, what have you done_ , but there's nothing I can do to stop things now, and I'm quickly falling, falling, and oh, God, John please forgive me if this is real, even if you don't exist please forgive me, if you're real then forgive me for doubting please, please--

 

 

I inhale a strangled breath of air as if I've just emerged from a nightmare. I flail about and realize that I am constrained somehow, wrapped up in something soft and tight.

"Ah," I choke out. "John!"

I am lying on my back in a bright room. My eyes adjust enough to see several pairs of eyes staring right back at me. The edges of my vision are still blurry, and I can't quite tell who exactly is there.

Muddled dialogue reaches my ears but I can't process any of it. I feel a pricking sensation in my arm and scrabble at it, pulling out a needle attached to an IV tube.

"No, don't do that, Sherlock!"

I look up blearily. Mycroft's face swims in front of me, forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Not you... again," I murmur thickly. It feels like I have cotton balls in my mouth. "Am I still in... mental hospital?"

Mycroft's eyebrows shoot upward. "Of course not. But Sherlock, we need you to relax."

The other people are various doctors, I presume, dressed in hospital scrubs. Strangely, D.I. Lestrade is there, too. And is that Mrs. Hudson? My eyes flit about in confusion, but there is only one person who matters right now.

"Where... John?" I whisper. "Do you remember John?"

Mycroft nods slowly. "Yes. But Sherlock--"

I smile in relief, ignoring the rest of his words, and sink into a soft blackness.

_John is real._


	7. Purgatorio: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I forgot to tag "character death" as a warning, so please be aware of this. However, without giving away any spoilers, I just want to say that you should take the warning with a grain of salt. I just didn't want to avoid tagging something that people might want to avoid.

I come to again. They are pulling tubes out of me, sticking me with needles, checking my blood pressure. Mycroft has ushered Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of the room and is pacing. I blink and realize that I am in the living room of 221B Baker Street. My heart jumps when I see the skull on the wall, the piles of books and papers on the desks, John's armchair next to the fireplace. The couch has been shifted to make room for the hospital bed on which I'm lying. I notice six or so computers resting on a table near the fireplace.

"I'm home," I say groggily.

One of the nurses glances up at me, but he doesn't say anything, just continues prying some sort of adhesive from behind my ears.

"What year is it?" I ask him. "What's today's date?"

"It's the thirtieth of March, 2014."

I sigh heavily. "Good." He pulls hard on the skin behind my ear. 

I swat at him. "Would you  _stop_ for a moment?" I shout. Everyone in the room pauses to watch me. "All of you, just _stop_! What is happening? Mycroft?"

Mycroft waves away the infuriating horde of medical personnel and they disperse. My brother approaches the bed.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Very confused," I snap.

"I assume that's normal for you."

"Have I been unconscious since December?"

I attempt to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but they feel as solid as marmalade. I'm dressed in nothing but boxer shorts, I note, and my legs and arms seem to have been shaved. My left shoulder itches and I reach back to feel, nestled among my scars, some sort of metallic ring embedded into my skin.

"What..." My fingers continue exploring, and I feel another hard object in the back of my neck, and others running along my spine. Panic begins to swell in my stomach, but a sudden memory tamps it down:

_I am lying on my stomach on a plastic examining table._

_"This is going to sting just a bit," someone warns._

_I laugh humorlessly. "I have been shot, stabbed, and whipped. I don't expect this to be anything I can't handle."_

 

"I did this voluntarily?" I exclaim.

Mycroft perches himself at the end of the bed. "It was for your own good. It took us some convincing, but not much."

I lean my head back. "And what do you mean by 'it,' exactly?"

Mycroft frowns. "Oh. I thought you had your memory back." He looks down at his hands and says carefully, "We--  _you_ volunteered to take part in a scientific experiment. It's extremely new technology and needs years of testing before being released to the public, if it ever is. Sherlock..." Mycroft stares at me. "I don't know exactly what happened to you while you were under, but it was all a computer program."

"I don't believe that technology has advanced quite that far yet, Mycroft."

Mycroft shrugs. "Would you change your mind if I said you were the only test subject who was able to retrieve himself out of the program, achieving consciousness based on sheer will? The program can see what you're doing and thinking at all times, Sherlock, and yet you were still able to beat it. I assume your above-average intelligence allowed you to retain some memory of your real life."

"Some?" I snap. "I remembered  _everything._ "

"Even more impressive."

"There was this man, Mycroft. He was... odd. But he was the one who convinced me that I wasn't crazy."

"I assume that he was an aspect of your subconscious that manifested itself physically."

I straighten myself in bed as much as I can, deciding to ignore the technological aspects of what Mycroft is saying, for now. "Why is Lestrade here? Is there a new case?"

"No, Sherlock. Everyone wanted to visit when they learned you were in the process of waking yourself up. I, however, didn't think it was very good for you to have all that noise, so I sent them downstairs."

I shake my head. "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are hardly  _everyone_ , Mycroft." I frown. "And this must not be a very secret experiment if you're going around and telling Gavin, of all people."

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "I never said it was secretive."

"What I don't understand," I say, "is why I would ever volunteer to do this? John and I need to catch Moriarty, Mycroft. Haven't you seen the broadcast? He's somewhere out there! I can't be spending my time with ridiculous experiments." I stop suddenly. "Oh... John has a baby now, doesn't he? That's why he's not here..." I swallow and wave my hand. "But regardless,  _I_ can't be doing this right now."

Mycroft grimaces. "Sherlock... Moriarty is dead."

I roll my eyes. "Mycroft, if I can fake my death, so can he. Surely you aren't going to bury your head in the sand and--"

"No, Sherlock, he died  _again_. You and John killed him."

I gape at my brother. "I don't remember that."

"I'm sure it will come back to you eventually."

I glare at one of the nurses who is trying to eavesdrop from the kitchen. "Mycroft," I say in a lower voice. "What happened to me? I despise not knowing things. You know this! What would happen to me to make me want to participate in this?"

Mycroft averts his eyes and fear grips my heart.

"Is John okay?"

Mycroft shakes his head slowly, his eyes pained.

My chest implodes. I cannot speak.


	8. Purgatorio: Part 3

"It's very lovely, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson says, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I can't believe he wanted to be buried where I was," I reply softly.

We are in the same cemetery where the gravestone bearing my name stood for two years. John's stone is an exquisite cream color, simply shaped. There is a bouquet of flowers resting against it. I sneak a look at the note on them and see that they're from Harry. My chest constricts.

After Mycroft told me what happened, I refused to speak to anyone for hours. It wasn't until Mrs. Hudson offered to take me here that I acknowledged anyone's presence. They all needed to leave the flat, anyway. 221B Baker Street is  _my_ home, not Mycroft's, not Lestrade's, not any of those wretched nurses. My home... and John's.

"At least there never was a child," I mutter bitterly, digging my foot into the dirt. My grief suddenly hardens into intense anger against the woman John called his wife.

"John would have been a wonderful father," Mrs. Hudson says. "But he deserved better than Mary. I just hope she doesn't insist on being buried next to him someday. I wouldn't much like that."

I snort. "Somehow, I think that Mary is far, far away from London now." My throat is tight and I stop talking.

Mrs. Hudson squeezes my hand. "Shall I leave you alone for a bit?"

I nod in silent thanks and wait until she has disappeared into the car park. Then, I sit cross-legged in the still-grassless dirt in front of the gravestone.

"We need to talk, John," I say huskily. "I don't-- I don't remember what happened to you. Mycroft told me about how you killed Moriarty, but I just wish I remembered it for myself. Right now it just sounds like a story in a newspaper." My words catch. "I understand now why I would have participated in that experiment. This... this hurts, John. If you felt even a fraction of this when you thought I was dead, then, well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John."

I reach outward and caress the cold stone with my fingertips. "I don't know how you managed it for two years, but maybe..."  _Maybe he didn't feel the same way about you_. _N_ _ow you'll never know._

The metal implants in my back itch. I reach behind me distractedly and scratch at them. "I know you wouldn't want me to fall apart, so I'll try not to. Lestrade said he'd give me some cases to solve, get me back to the usual routine." I manage to laugh slightly. "And to be honest, I completely ignored Lestrade and pretended he wasn't there. I think you might have found that funny." I frown. "But honestly, the idea of helping out the idiots at Scotland Yard doesn't excite me like it should. It's not the same without you." 

I pause. My words have dredged up some memories:

_"Sherlock, I can't keep doing this. Mary will give birth any day now and I'll have a kid to look after, and--"_

_"But it's not the same without you, John. Solving cases, I mean. And don't you miss this?"_

Were those the last words I spoke to him? I panic, searching hard for memories I'm not even sure exist. But then they come:

_Moriarty is at the pool where you first met face-to-face. He points his gun at Mary. (Mary? Why is Mary there?) He's pointing his gun and screaming at her. She is crying and pulls out her own gun, points it at you. John tackles Mary to the ground, shoots Moriarty, is shot by Mary. Or at least that's what the official police reports state. In all the confusion, it is hard for you to really know what happened for sure. Either way, Mary escapes. You learn she forged all the medical documents, wore a fake stomach, was never actually pregnant. She worked for Moriarty, was one of his top snipers. But what does it matter, now that John's dead? Who cares anymore?_

I feel nauseous. It all seems wrong. I always assumed that I'd die before John. I suppose that was rather selfish of me, though I didn't see it that way at the time. I guess I just thought that John would be okay without me, especially now that he had a family. I could tell he wasn't exactly happy with Mary, but for people like him, maybe an unhappy marriage is preferable to being alone.

But  _I_ can handle being alone, right? Alone is what protects me? I know one thing for sure: I'll never allow myself to get attached again. I let it happen once, and all I got out of it was a broken heart. Urgh. How utterly, disgustingly cliche. Sherlock Holmes, you are a disappointment.

I stand up and brush the dirt from my trousers. I listlessly gaze out at the line of trees that surround the cemetery. I allow my mind to distract itself for a moment, deducing which year each tree was planted, which ones grew naturally and which were transplanted. It helps to not think about John for a moment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the movement of some whitish object. I turn, but there's nothing there aside from more headstones and trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst. Bear with me!


	9. Purgatorio: Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long since I've updated! I've had an absolutely killer work schedule lately.

"Sherlock... Sherlock... Sherlock!"

Lestrade bumps his fist against the table in his office.

"Good God, Lestrade, what?"

"I've been trying to talk to you for the past ten minutes," Lestrade says. "If you're going to just sit there, I'm going home to sleep."

I unsteeple my fingers and lean back in my chair. "Oh, I'm sorry, Lestrade. I'll just stop trying to solve the triple murder." I scoff. "It's like you've never seen me work before. Molly did the same thing at Bart's today, trying to make small talk while I was in my Mind Palace. Don't you people ever learn?"

Lestrade's expression softens. "Sorry, Sherlock. It's just late and I'm tired." He yawns and stretches. "I'm, er, going to get us some coffee, okay?"

I acknowledge him with a flippant wave. I stare at the wall in front of me to regain my concentration, but as I expected, I think of John. John would never have interrupted me during a trip to the Mind Palace if I were in the middle of solving a case. For that matter, neither would Lestrade, usually. I decide to properly deduce him when he comes back with the coffee.

Lestrade returns with a mug in each hand and sets one in front of me. "Sorry, Sherlock, I forgot how you take it, so I just went for black."

I raise an eyebrow. "Goodness, Lestrade, I wasn't unconscious for eons." I pause and imagine John clearing his throat in annoyance. "No, it's fine. Thank you."

It is Lestrade's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Er, you're welcome. And sorry again. Not everyone has your memory, you know."

I nod absently, having begun to deduce Lestrade. There are bags under his eyes and stubble on his face, but I already know that he has been focusing on the case these past few days. Lestrade has been divorced for two years now, but the faint smell of perfume on his clothes suggests he has been with a woman recently. He hasn't seen his children in weeks, I extrapolate from the worry lines on his face. The absence of nicotine patches on his arms and the presence of a rectangular shape pressed against his pocket tell me that he has started smoking again. There is nothing particularly odd with Lestrade now, but an idea swims past me that I cannot help but acknowledge, although I shouldn't.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Whatever you're doing. It's freaky."

I stand up quickly, my chair squeaking. "I'm leaving."

"Why? Do you have a lead?"

"I'm leaving because you're bothering me, Lestrade."

_"What?"_

I slide my arms through my coat and stride toward the door. "Goodbye, Lestrade."

 

I hoped that getting back to the work would distract me from John, but if this first case back is a precedent, perhaps I should quit now. Actually, I was making quite good progress on the murders themselves, but Lestrade... ugh! John was the only person whose company I really enjoyed, but Lestrade was never so irritating before.

It is unseasonably cold outside, but I appreciate the brisk air on my face. I head toward home and am thinking suddenlyof when I came back from the dead, seeing John in that restaurant. He was always able to say so much with just his eyes. Or was it that I was just so good at reading him, even better than I can read everyone else?

John was furious with me. I guess I can understand that, but if he came back right now I would be too busy with him to be angry... if he'd let me.

I reach the flat and decide to go downstairs to see Mrs. Hudson. Every night for the past week, I've drank tea and played my violin. I've tried to avoid sleeping much, as I don't like the nightmares I have when I succumb. I've spent at least the last forty hours awake. Perhaps talking to Mrs. Hudson would be a nice change of pace from avoiding sleep by myself. Well, perhaps not, but there is something I want to discuss with her.

The landlady is preparing for bed when I knock on her door, but she still allows me in and makes us both cups of tea.

"How are you holding up, Sherlock? Have you been eating? Sleeping?"

I haven't been doing either, but I don't reply to her question. If I let on that I'm not fine, _extremely_ not fine, they might send me back to that wretched computer program.

"Do you think John may still be alive, Mrs. Hudson?" I say instead.

Mrs. Hudson's lips narrow. She places her hand over mine and squeezes. "No, Sherlock. I don't. Now what makes you ask that?"

I shrug. "I faked my death. Moriarty faked his."

Mrs. Hudson sighs. "John wasn't like you, Sherlock."

I catch a white flash in the corner of my eye and stand up. I cross to the other side of the kitchen.

"When I was in the simulation, or whatever you'd like to call it, this is where everything really fell apart. This man began talking to me, and he somehow spirited me away to the roof of Bart's."

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson says uncomfortably.

"I keep hoping that it'll happen again," I admit.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson stands and approaches me. She smells of vanilla and Bergamot oil. "I'm sorry, but this is the real world."

I frown. "But how do you know for sure? Granted, I haven't been experiencing any more time jumps, but things just seem  _off_ here."

"Off?" Mrs. Hudson repeats.

I know I've said too much, but I feel compelled to continue. "Yes,  _off_. Different."

"Everything seems different when someone you love dies, dear."

"It's as if Lestrade and Molly don't know me anymore," I muse, looking over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder to avoid eye contact. "Lestrade didn't even know how I take my coffee."

"He's only human, Sherlock... Dear, how long has it been since you slept?"

I glare at her. "You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"No, Sherlock, I think you're grieving and sleep-deprived. Go to bed. We'll talk again in the morning."

With that, Mrs. Hudson sends me into the hallway and closes her door behind me. I made a face at the door and trudge upstairs. Standing in the living room, I suddenly don't know what to do. I don't feel like playing the violin right now, but sleeping is out of the question. I decide to take a bath. John always took lots of baths when we lived together, and I teased him for it, but I actually found the behavior endearing.

I run the water and strip off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I step into the too-hot water and submerge myself but for my head. As soon as I feel the bathwater soaking my tired muscles, I begin to sob. I don't cry for reasons of genuine emotion often, but this is just too much.

"All right, nameless man," I say to the air. "If you're here, show yourself. I'll do anything to have this be fake. And if it is, I'll keep my head underwater until I'm in the real world. I really will."

"You think it's gonna be that simple, mate? If 'e's trying to burn the 'eart out of you, you think it'll be that simple?"


	10. Purgatorio: Part 5

"What do you mean?" I ask.

I can't see anyone, but the voice is clear and seems to come from near the door. "You know what I mean."

"You said 'burn the heart out' of me. So this is Moriarty's doing. He's back from the dead again." I laugh humorlessly. "That, or I've gone mad."

"You could be mad. You've been mad before, right?"

I shake my head viciously, sending water sloshing over the side of the tub. "No, I have not. Mycroft might contest this, but post traumatic stress disorder is  _not_ madness."

"Bit of a tricky term, innit?"

"I suppose." My pale body looks misshapen below the water, rippling and wavering. "It seems to me that I'm in a quandary. I need to stay strong for John, to face my life as it is. I certainly would like to believe that this is not real, that John is alive, but that's the problem. My sentiment for him is clouding my judgment. Instead of seeing things rationally, I'm wishing--"

"My God, you're boring!" the voice exclaims. "Do you read a dictionary every night before bed and memorize the longest words you can use to put people to sleep?"

"None of those were particularly difficult words."

The voice doesn't respond.

"Are you still there?" I wait. "Fine!" I lower myself into the bath until I am submerged but for my nose. I accidentally inhale some water and emerge snorting and sputtering.

"I don't know why you liked these, John," I mutter, standing up and wrapping myself in a fluffy towel.

I stalk into the bedroom and collapse on top of my bed, still wearing the towel. Despite my questionable sanity, fear of nightmares, and utter grief over losing John, I somehow slip into sleep.

 

In the dream, I am sitting in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club. John sits across from me, sipping at a cup of English Breakfast. He's wearing that striped red and blue jumper that I pretend to hate but secretly adore.

"John!" I exclaim. I stand up and kneel in front of John's chair. He looks startled.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asks. I love the way his voice gets higher when he's indignant. 

"You're alive!"

"Er, yes, I believe so."

I knock the cup out of his hands and wrap him in my arms, nearly squashing him in the process.

"Sherlock! Why are you in my lap?"

"I'm just so glad you're alive, John," I sob. "You don't know what it was like."

He pushes me back slightly so he can look me in the eye. "Yes, I do. You were gone for two years, remember?"

I swallow. "Oh. Yes."

John sighs and his demeanor subtly but distinctly changes. "Look, Sherlock, we shouldn't waste time talking about that."

I nod. "You're absolutely right. Let's just enjoy being here."

He shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, I mean we need to focus on what's happening outside of this dream."

A chill runs down my back. I feel momentarily paralyzed. "Dream?"

John rolls his eyes. "Don't be daft, Sherlock. Now stop messing about and listen to me."

I don't move from his lap, but I fix my eyes on him with quiet attention.

John nods. "Okay. Good. So let's focus on the facts, yeah?"

"The facts," I agree. "Okay."

John looks at me patiently.

"Oh! You want me to tell you the facts?"

"I thought you were the smart one, Sherlock?" John smiles at me.

"Yes." I steeple my fingers. "All right, then. Facts." I stare blankly into his face. "But that's just the thing, John. I don't know what's fact and what's fiction."

"There is nothing you're absolutely sure of? Nothing?"

"I know that I have a multitude of complicated feelings for you, John."

John laughs. "Good, a starting point." His smile disappears. "If Moriarty is behind this reality, Sherlock, then he's going to mess with your mind. You know that. He will try to burn your heart out."

I shrug. "With you dead, that's already been done."

"Not true," John counters. "You still love me, don't you?"

I freeze.

"Oh, come on, it's just a dream. You can admit it."

"Of course I love you," I snap.

"Well, then it seems to me like you still have a heart. Now what would Moriarty have to do to burn your heart out?"

"Try to make me forget about you, or stop loving you," I offer. "But he already tried that in the... the simulation, or whatever, and it didn't work."

"But what if this _is_ real life?" John asks. He waves his hand to indicate the room. "Not  _this_ , of course, but the waking world. If that's the case, then it would be beneficial for you to stop loving me. You would be able to get back to the work, and your life, and stop wondering if things are real or not."

"But then Moriarty would win. I'd have no heart."

"Not in this scenario, Sherlock. He's dead."

I rub my temples. "It seems that I lose in any scenario," I mutter. "If he's dead, then you're dead. If he's alive, then I'm stuck in my own mind with no way to get out. What if I try to escape and just end up killing myself, for real this time?"

"No!" John exclaims. His eyes are wide and bright, his face so close to mine. "You can't die, Sherlock. Don't do that to me."

"Even if you're dead?"

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock!" John says fiercely. "You will  _not_ harm yourself in any way unless you know for  _sure_ that this is all in your mind. I won't allow it!"

"I wasn't planning on it," I say. "Calm down, John." I wait until his breathing has evened. "But how do I figure out for sure if this is real or not?"

"Well, if it's Moriarty's doing, then maybe there are things he doesn't know about. You could, I don't know, give your mum a call and ask her about some distant childhood memory. If she knows what you're talking about, then this is probably real life. How else would Moriarty be able to do that?"

I consider this. "But what if it's not that simple? I don't know how Moriarty would have the technology to trap me in a virtual world, but if _that_ is possible, he could also be using my memories to build the world. We cannot rule out anything."

"But Lestrade and Molly were acting strange, weren't they? Like Moriarty didn't know enough about them to color them in properly? And isn't it weird that you've been seeing flashes of light, and hearing voices? That never happened before, did it?"

"This is just all so... illogical." I sigh. "Okay, so what about the voice, that man? Can I trust him?"

John shrugs. "I wish I knew. Can you even trust me?"

"What does that mean?" I peer at him questioningly.

"I doubt that I'm the _real_ John," John says. "The real John doesn't hang around in dreams. I'm either a figment of your imagination or some part of Moriarty's creation, if there even is such a thing. I don't mean to scare you, Sherlock, but I just want you to be cautious."

"No, John. Stop it," I say. "You're real to me."

John opens his mouth, but pauses for a second, looking at a point above my shoulder. "You're waking up, Sherlock. I can't stay."

"No, John, don't--"

 

"--leave me!" I shout, falling off the bed. I'm twisted up in my towel and the sheets, and have to kick at them to escape.

Once I'm free from the cotton prison, I sit shakily on the edge of the bed and put my head in my hands. Morning sunlight warms my naked body. It was a comfort to see John, but I am just as lost as I was before I went to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy, sorry for piles of Inception-y-ness and confusing stuff. :P


	11. Purgatorio: Part 6

_Knock, knock._

"Sherlock, let me in."

_Knock, knock._

"Damn it, Sherlock. Let me in. I didn't come all this way to be ignored, thank you very much."

I slowly open the door and glare at Mycroft.

"What do you want?" I drawl, placing my hand on my robe-clad hip.

"Mrs. Hudson says she hasn't seen you recently. D.I. Lestrade says you quit mid-case and haven't been to Scotland Yard since."

"Hmm," I say thoughtfully, rubbing my chin. "Well, there's a very simple explanation for all of that, brother mine."

Mycroft waits. "Well? What is it?"

"I have not left the flat in four days. A very simple explanation, as I've said. I would think you'd be quicker to figure that out, Mycroft. If you  _are_ Mycroft."

Mycroft gapes at me, umbrella hanging slack in his hand. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

I flop down on the couch and tilt my head backward to look at my brother. "Oh, just questioning reality."

"Have you been using drugs again, Sherlock? I knew this would happen. This is why we had to put you in the program in the first place."

"That's why you were so intent on the experiment? To keep me sober?"

"You may not remember, but you got high after John's death," Mycroft snaps, pointing at me with the tip of the umbrella. "As I saw it, I could either allow my brother to kill himself with drugs, or I could convince him to do something that would actually  _help_ people. And as I said, your consent was not as hard to come by as I had imagined it would be."

I frown. "Consent while high is  _not_ consent. When were you going to tell me this?"

Mycroft shrugs. "Either you figured it out or you didn't. You can't go back and undo the experiment, so I wasn't worried about your being annoyed, to be perfectly honest."

"If this is all even _real_ , Mycroft, you shouldn't have let me do it, even if I seemed okay with it. And your idiotic experiment doesn't seem like it's going to help a lot of people. I found the entire experience rather _un_ helpful."

"If criminals believe they're experiencing real life while in the program, they would be much more likely to lead us to other criminals or give away their secrets. It's not that far-fetched. It's just that _you_ happened to be too intelligent for it." Mycroft pauses. "And what do you mean, if this is 'real'?"

I manage a chuckle. "Mycroft, look at you. If your face were any redder, I'd think you were a tomato. It's not becoming."

Mycroft walks up to the couch and peers down at me. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm just grieving. It's an entirely normal process," I say. "You seem to think that grief can be turned on and off. That is not the case, so allow me my space and get out."

"Sherlock, 'questioning reality' is not a normal part of the grieving process."

"Perhaps..." I smile at him as he sits down across from me and sets his umbrella on the floor. "So let's play a game, then. Tell me something only you and I know."

"I'm not much in the mood for games."

"No? I was also hoping you'd fancy a round of Operation after this. But go on. Humor your poor, grieving brother. Tell me something that only we know."

Mycroft huffs in exasperation. "Fine. Hmm..." He ponders. "Father had a drinking problem when we were children."

"Anyone could figure that one out," I reply. "Especially because he got help for it. I need something more secret."

I focus clearly on what I would say if I were asked the question. I would say that Mycroft and I went for a walk in the woods behind our house when he was seventeen and I was ten. It was early summer, and nature was fresh and alive. During our ramble, I found a high heel lying on the ground and noticed there were blood stains on it when I picked it up. From the location of the shoe, we followed a trail of broken branches and scuffed grass to find a pile of freshly moved dirt.

"It smells like rotting meat," I wailed, clasping my hands over my face.

Mycroft's eyes were huge. "Sherlock, we need to leave."

"Mycroft, I think it's a dead body! We have to investigate!"

Mycroft yanked on my collar and dragged me backward. "We are going home now!"

Later that night, I snuck out to investigate on my own, but couldn't progress when I saw police tape wound around the perimeter of trees. Mycroft must have called the police. I considered sneaking past the tape, but then I heard voices, and beams of torchlight criss-crossed in my direction. I crouched down before anyone saw me, and spent the rest of the night shivering in bed. Not shivering with fear, mind you, but excitement. I wanted to find out who the murderer was. Was it someone I knew? Someone close to me? Could it be one of my  _parents_?

In the present, Mycroft nods thoughtfully to himself and says, "All right, then what about the time we found a homemade grave in the forest?"

I smile. "I was thinking of the exact same thing. Yes, that's a good one. Do you remember who the killer was, Mycroft?"

Mycroft peers at me intently, and I try to fill my head with white noise. I repeat the word "John" in my head over and over again to the tune of "God Save the Queen" (not "King," as apparently we do not have one), and stare at Mycroft through narrowed eyes.

Mycroft lifts an eyebrow and finally offers a slight shrug. "I don't remember. It was a long time ago."

"You don't remember? You don't remember that it was our cousin Thomas?" I reply, standing up and stepping closer to Mycroft until we are nearly nose-to-nose. "He was staying with us for the summer holiday, remember? He decided to have some fun with a prostitute until things went rather badly for him. But it wasn't the police who found out, no,  _I_ did. And Mummy and Daddy thought it would be best to cover up the whole thing, never mention it to the police. It's still an unsolved case, you know."

"Oh, yes, nasty business." Mycroft grimaces. "I don't know what you're getting at, Sherlock, but I am a busy man and I need to leave."

"You just got here."

"I was just checking on you." Mycroft quickly buttons his coat and picks up his umbrella. "I'll be back tomorrow. We need to discuss your future."

"Mycroft, wait!" I call to his retreating figure. He's already made it halfway down the stairs.

He turns toward me wearily. "What, Sherlock?"

I smirk. "None of that actually happened. We never found a dead body in the woods."

The color drains from his face.

"Also, do you really think Thomas would be able to kill someone?  _Thomas?_   He can't even kill spiders."

Mycroft says nothing. He just shakes his head and resumes walking down the stairs.

I stare into the empty room for a few minutes after Mycroft leaves. Finally, I shout, "Well, I'm convinced. Is that proof enough for you, John? Hmm? Or how about you, nameless man?"

There is no response, but I feel hopeful as I sit down on the couch and begin to think.

 

Half an hour later, I've interrupted my pondering to make toast, as I've begun to feel lightheaded. Even if this reality isn't, well, reality, apparently I still need to fulfill my basic physical needs. I am just about to take my first bite when my vision sparkles and I collapse to the floor.

"--and if you look closely, you can see that he's experiencing rapid eye movement," a voice cuts through the blackness.

"John?" I whisper. Or maybe I just think it.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Did anyone else hear that?"

"Hear what?" Mary's voice.

"He said my name!"

"I didn't hear anything." Lestrade.

"He said my name. I heard him say my name. Sherlock? Wake up, Sherlock. Please."

The strangest and most exquisite feeling washes over me, as if I'm suddenly wrapped in a soft blanket. I feel safe and cocooned.

_No. Wait. This isn't right._

"He's going back under!"

"Try shaking him?"

"I'm not going to bloody shake him!"

I attempt to lift my arms, to claw at the softness encircling me.

"That's right, Sherlock, stay with me."

"John, there are definitely no more IVs in him, right?"

"You can check, Greg, but I think we got them all."

I feel as if I've been smothered with pillows. I thrash about to shake them off. I'm muttering things, I think, but I'm not sure what, or if anyone can hear me. I see dim lights above me, florescent, certainly not those in Baker Street. The colors swimming about my vision melt and morph into different things.

"Sherlock, please wake up. Please." John's voice cuts through everything.

I inhale sharply, a choked gasp, and suddenly all of the colors rush into focus.


	12. Paradiso: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the tiny manticore said in Adventure Time, "My new prison is shame." In other words, I'm sorry for how long this chapter took to post, as well as how short it is. Bear with me! Or rather, manticore with me! The end of this fic is nigh!

The bed I'm lying on is hard, but the skin on John's wrists is soft. I'm clutching them with both my hands, tight enough to leave marks; I don't think he notices. I keep repeating his name.

"Shh, Sherlock. Shh, it's okay. I've got you," John murmurs. He smells like sweat and soap, and I inhale greedily. His face is exactly as I remember it and I almost laugh in a sort of manic glee.

My eyes finally leave John. Lestrade and Mary watch me with wide eyes. They're dressed for the winter, hair and clothes still slightly damp from melted snow. The sight of Mary's arms resting on her round stomach is horrendous. I look past them to examine my surroundings, relaxing my grip on John's arms. We are in a large room, possibly in a warehouse or an old sawmill. Everything smells like cedar, and the walls are covered in unfinished planks of wood. Other than my narrow bed and a few tables next to it cluttered with medical equipment, the large room is empty.

"Sherlock, we're bringing you to hospital," John says soothingly. "I know you hate being there, but we're not--"

"No!" I croak, my eyes flitting back to John. My throat is dry. "What if they put me under? I can't be asleep again. I don't want to wake up in a different reality."

There is a lengthy pause.

"He's delusional," Mary finally says. There is no hint of emotion in her voice.

John shoots her a sharp glance and looks back at me. "Sherlock, calm down. You're okay now."

I have tens of millions of questions for John, but they all flee my mind for the moment. Without thinking (or perhaps just without caring), I grip his shoulders and awkwardly drag him into a hug, his head smothered in my chest.

John jerks his head up. His hair is ruffled and I want to use my hand to smooth it down. I don't.

"Sherlock!" he says in that faux-annoyed way he uses with me when he's actually amused or pleased.

I clasp my hands behind his back. "John, I..." I see Mary and Lestrade watching and cannot continue.

John emits a shaky laugh. "What's gotten into you?" He finally manages to disentangle himself from my arms. His face is flushed and he looks away when he says, "We'll be with you the whole time in hospital, yeah?"

I nod. "Okay, fine. You can take me. I promise, though, I will not stay there long." I look at Lestrade. "Gavin, what is today's date?"

"It's Greg. Charming as ever, Sherlock," Lestrade replies. "It's the third of January."

"And the year?"

"Er... 2015."

I exhale. "Good."

John looks at me uneasily. "Sherlock, what's the last thing you remember?"

I emit a strangled sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. I've been asked that question more times lately than is comfortable. "What an idiotic inquiry, John."

"What?" John frowns. "Do, er, do you remember getting off the plane?"

"The plane? Yes, of course."

"That was only about a week ago," Lestrade offers.

I roll my eyes. "Obviously. I extrapolated that from the date." I see John exchange glances with Mary and Lestrade. "You're not telling me something. What is it? Is it that Moriarty is behind this?"

Mary's eyes widen. "How did you guess that?"

"Clearly you are less familiar with my processes than I thought," I say evenly, though my stomach is churning.  _The baby was fake, and you killed John. You_ killed _John. I don't care in what reality it occurred; you still killed John._

Mary squints at me but doesn't say anything.

"Yes, I figured Moriarty was behind all this, but of course I don't know the specifics. I can assume that I went after Moriarty, but ended up falling into some kind of trap. Judging from the IVs, I was drugged with some sort of hallucinogen that also rendered me, for all intents and purposes, unconscious."

"Back up, there. 'Hallucinogen?'" Lestrade says.

"Don't interrupt me, _Greg_... As I was saying, after I was drugged, you three eventually managed to find me here. Rather lazy on Moriarty's part, now that I think about it. Unless... unless he wanted me to be found. Hmm." I steeple my hands atop my stomach.

"You think we're so incompetent that we can't find you on our own?" Lestrade asks indignantly. "Mate, Moriarty is in custody now. We arrested him here."

"Greg!" John exclaims, whirling to face Lestrade. "You promised not to tell him that yet! He needs to rest."

"He's in custody!" I exclaim. I shake my head. This is not ideal. "John, I already promised to go to hospital. But you're telling me everything while we're there."  _And I have some things to tell you, too_.

John nods. "All right, Sherlock. But you need to promise me that you won't do anything rash. Until you get your memory back, we don't know what happened to you here, and I don't want you taking any risks with your health." He sighs. "We were really worried about you."

"As was I."


	13. Paradiso: Part 2

I’ve been in hospital for _hours_. Blood samples, concussion checks, drug tests, questions, _questions_ , so many bloody questions.

Mary and the doctors and nurses are making it impossible to talk to John privately. Lestrade returned to Scotland Yard after they had me settled in the ambulance, but no one else seems to get the hint. I feel like I’m being fairly obvious that I don’t want anyone but John here, but either they are denser than I thought possible, or they are simply ignoring my huffs and glares. The mob of hospital staff may indeed be idiots, but I doubt that of Mary. She is smarter than I initially gave her credit for.

John keeps trying to mention Moriarty, but I just stare at him coldly. “Later, John,” I say sternly several times. _When Mary isn’t around_.

My drug tests come back clean for conventional substances, but the blood tests will take a day or so to get back to us. I’m sure they will find some sort of chemical in my blood, but I’m still trying to puzzle through what exactly it will be. Obviously a hallucinogenic, obviously a sedative, but this is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I hate admitting that I’m unsure about something, but I cannot determine how much control Moriarty had over my hallucinations.

Whether or not Moriarty directly controlled my hallucinations (a rather far-fetched notion, I'll admit), he did not kill me, so he must have intended to bring me back to consciousness at some point. What would I have awakened as had John not rescued me? A true sociopath? A man broken by grief and doubt? Someone afraid of his own mind? Well, I suppose, these notions are all null. The fact is, if Moriarty is in jail, he wants to be. He planned on my rescue. There’s no point in assuming otherwise. Waste of time.

 “Sherlock, you’ve been staring at the wall for the past half hour. Care to share?”

I blink and realize that John and I are finally alone. He’s sitting on a chair on the left side of my bed, looking weary.

“You mentioned hallucinations to the doctor, but you never really told me what happened to you,” John says. “Keep me in on this, Sherlock. Don’t shut me out.” His eyes are pleading.

“Then help me think, John."

John looks up at the ceiling and bites his lip. “Okay, so do you want to know my opinion on why Moriarty would want to do all this? I think it was to weaken you. Or to keep you from trying to escape while he held you there. It’s hard to escape when you’re not awake. And then maybe he was going to… take you away after a while, when there were fewer people looking for him.”

I shake my head vigorously. “You are missing a key component. Just like last time Moriarty was in jail, it’s because he wants to be,” I say. “I can come up with thousands of reasons why he would want to conduct experiments on me, but why would he want me to be found? For the past… half hour, did you say? For the past half hour, I have been thinking of how Moriarty’s experiment would benefit him had you not been there to save me, but I think he _wanted_ you to save me.”

John furrows his brow and stares at me without a word. He’s thinking but he can’t come up with an adequate answer to my question.

“I tried LSD once in college,” I break the silence.

“What?”

“I detested the experience. The classmate who sold me the drug told me that I’d simply experienced ‘a bad trip’ and needed to try it again, but I was in no hurry to relive my nightmares.”

John rubs his eyes. “Sherlock, what does this have to do with anything?”

“Nothing to do with Moriarty really, but it's interesting to consider. If my LSD trip indicated my typical response to hallucinogens, it would follow that any further trips would be nightmarish. My genius may have been the only thing allowing me to maintain my sanity, to recognize the hallucinations for what they were.”

“Sherlock, what exactly did you hallucinate?” John asks carefully.

Now that we are finally alone, I have difficulties forming the words. “I… Well… There were two different… shall we call them ‘dreams?’”

John nods. “Okay, sure, dreams. And what happened in these dreams?”

“It sounds ridiculous.” I close my eyes. “In the first one, I was transported to a time before I met you. And I tried to find you, but you didn’t exist.”

“I didn’t exist?”

I allow myself to open my eyes and peek at John. “It was… horrifying.”

John’s eyes widen. “Really, now?”

“Of course!” I frown. “Don’t be stupid.”

John smiles weakly. “Well, with the number of times a day you insult me, I figured it might be a nice break for you to not have me around.”

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can say anything, John interrupts: “So, what about the second dream?”

I take a sip of water from a cup on the nightstand. “I was back in the current year, but you were dead.”

John’s smile disappears. “Oh. How did it happen?”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“Freak doctoring accident?” John attempts a wink.

I cross my arms and lean back slightly on the pillow, trying to keep my breathing even. “No, Mary killed you.”

John looks down and shrugs. “Oh. Well, it was a dream, so… yeah. I dreamed a few nights ago that Mrs. Hudson turned into a potato.”

“‘Dream’ perhaps was the wrong term,” I say. “I think nightmare would be more accurate.”

“That bad, huh?” John’s tone is light but his eyes are sad. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists over and over.

I take a breath and feel something awful coil in my stomach. _Sherlock, don’t be an idiot. Say something_. “John, do you remember on the tarmac, when I told you my full name?” I ask.

“Yeah, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It’s quite a mouthful.”

I smile slightly. “It is. Well, there was something else that I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I want to tell you now.”

John scratches the back of his neck. His gaze is flitting up and down from my eyes to the floor. “Oh?”

Suddenly, I can’t do it. John is looking at me with hesitation, but behind that I see an understanding in his expression that I find strangely infuriating. He knows, I realize with a sick lurching feeling. He knows what I’m going to say and he’s still making me say it. I straighten myself and exclaim, “Stop being obtuse, John!”

John wrinkles his nose. “What? What on earth are you talking about?”

“You _know_ what I want to say.”

John stands up and waves his finger at me. His face is turning red. “Sherlock, if you have something to say, then you say it. If you want to tell me something, then you’re going to tell me in your own words.”

I stare up at him and shake my head. “This is not easy for me, John.”

“Oh, and you think it’s easy for me?” John’s voice is rising.

“No, but—”

“Why now?” John shouts. I jump slightly in bed. “You had years and years, and you decide to say something _now_?”

“When would have been a more suitable time for you, John? Please, enlighten me.”

“When I wasn’t _married_ , maybe?”

We both freeze at his words. Our dance around the subject has become frighteningly close to it.

“I didn’t know before then,” I mutter.

John blinks rapidly.

“It’s not like it matters anyway!” I finally say. “I just wanted you to know, but you already do, so can we please just forget—”

“Are you an idiot?” John shouts.

“Far from it.”

John sits down on the end of the bed and glares at me. “Say it.”

I feel my face warm. “What?”

“I want you to say it.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think, Sherlock?”

I shrug. “You want to humiliate me further?”

John’s posture crumbles. He looks at me with wide eyes. “Humiliate you? You think that I’d want that, Sherlock? God, no, I just… I just want to hear it for real. To know I’m not making things up. Damn it, Sherlock, I love you. And I know it’s too late now because I’m married with a child on the way, but I just want to hear it so I _have_ something, you know? To last me for the rest of whenever.”

John’s mobile rings and he shakes his head at me and pulls it out of his pocket. “Hello?” He shoots me a glance, then stands up and disappears into the hall.

Suddenly, I’m losing John all over again, and the third time is by far the most painful.


	14. Paradiso: Part 3

John returns to the room and looks down at his phone. "Mary's gone into labour," he says evenly. He is standing a few paces away from the bed.

"I know," I reply.

John doesn't bother to ask how I know. He swallows and looks up at me. His eyes are too bright. "Sherlock... I'm sorry for yelling at you. I don't know what I wanted, but like you said, it doesn't matter now anyway."

I rub the bed sheet between my fingers. "John, I do love you, too." The words spill out of me and it's like vomiting up bad food. A purge.

John purses his lips and deliberately looks up at the ceiling. "I know. I have known... for a while."

"I'm sorry that I do."

John blinks. His features rearrange themselves for a moment until his face is impassive. "Don't be."

I manage a shrug. "You should probably go."

"Yeah." John doesn't move, just crosses his arms and gazes at the fluorescent lights. His mouth trembles.

"John?"

"What?" His voice cracks.

"I hope we can still be... whatever it was we were before." I sigh. "That's all."

John nods fervently. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." He looks hesitantly toward the door. "I guess I should leave now."

"Yes."

 

The next morning, they tell me that the blood tests are inconclusive. The chemists have never seen the compound that's in my blood before, and they've requested more samples and more time and to investigate it. I am rather unsurprised by this development; I would have been even if the hospital staff didn't appear to be total idiots half the time.

After they withdraw my blood again, Mycroft stops by to take me home. We are silent during the drive to Baker Street, and continue the silence until we are seated in the living room with cups of tea.

I start by describing each hallucination in as much detail as I can remember. Mycroft remains calm throughout the entire story, simply nodding or shaking his head at times.

"The scenario in my second dream is too realistic," I finally say. "I don't trust Mary, and neither do you. So why are we allowing John to be so close to her?"

"I thought the baby wasn't real in that dream," Mycroft says casually, stirring his tea. "Didn't she just give birth?"

I roll my eyes. "Not the point, Mycroft! Listen to me. She _killed_ John in that dream. I believe she has the potential to do so in real life, as well. We need to get John away from her."

"Sherlock, I've told you this several times. Until we can establish that Mary is working for Moriarty, it is safest for John to believe in her innocence. I, too, do not doubt her capacity to kill. However, she would not kill John unless it were necessary. Unless we _made_ it necessary. And we're not going to do that, are we, Sherlock? Not until we can have her locked away where she can't hurt anyone anymore." Mycroft is talking to me as if I were a child, and I try to show my annoyance by clenching my jaw and glaring at him. _  
_

"I'm going to talk to Moriarty in jail tomorrow."

The look of surprise on Mycroft's face is fleeting. "Oh, and I'm sure he'll be absolutely honest with you. How delightful."

I glare at him and stand up. "Don't underestimate me." I walk to the window and stare down below at the damp, chilly street. My violin beckons me, so I pick it up and begin to pick at the strings.

I can hear Mycroft's sneer. "Don't underestimate _him_ , Sherlock."

I am about to turn around from the window when I see a flash of white in the corner of my eye, as if a pale, white-clothed figure just turned the bend in the street. I drop the violin and press both hands against the glass of the window.

"Sherlock!"

I sink to my knees. "No, no, no, not again." I look up at Mycroft, who has approached me with wide eyes. "Mycroft, it's happening again."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" Mycroft extends a hand and I reluctantly take it. He helps me to my feet.

I shakily sit down in one of the chairs. "I'm seeing white flashes. It's a sign that this isn't real. I thought I saw the bald man again, wearing white." I take a shuddering breath. "Mycroft, if he's back, then what does that mean?"

"Sherlock, it's probably a side effect of whatever Moriarty used to sedate you. Please, do calm down. I can assure you that this is real life, like it or not."

I shake my head violently. "Mycroft, I need to talk to Moriarty  _now._  Arrange it."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You're in no state to interrogate him," Mycroft says. He picks up my violin and places it on a desk. "Go to bed. I'll arrange you to meet with him tomorrow morning."

"I'm not going to  _bed_. It's ten in the morning."

Mycroft sighs and sits down on the couch. "Sherlock, must I babysit you?"

"Don't be an idiot."

Mycroft crosses one leg over the other. "Well, perhaps I will just stay here and enjoy my little brother's company. I wouldn't want him to get lonely."

I scowl. "You cannot hold me hostage in my own home. If I want to speak to Moriarty, I will."

Mycroft shrugs innocently. "Good luck getting to him."

I sway on my feet, still feeling lightheaded, so I reluctantly sit down next to him. "You're intolerable."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Would you rather spend the day with your dear brother, or with the happy Watsons and their new bundle of joy?"

I grimace. "Fancy a game of Operation, then?" I ask flatly.

"Absolutely."

I rummage through the piles of books for the game box, my eyes darting about while doing so, keeping alert for more flashes of white.


	15. Paradiso: Part 4

John and Mary's baby is a girl.

Obviously.

I haven't been to visit them yet.

I'm not very interested in visiting hospitals.

I'm also not interested in babies. Or families. Or John.

Mrs. Hudson wants to know if I'm interested in the baby's name.

No, because the baby's name is not Sherlock. Obviously. Who would name their daughter Sherlock?

I don't much care what her name is.

It's Katherine. I don't care. But if anyone is interested, it's Katherine.

 

The warden leads me to the visiting room for prisoners considered to be high risk. It smells of despair in here. Two rows of chairs and desks face each other, with a window-covered wall erected between them. There are a handful of others on my side of the wall. A miniskirt clad woman, who is sitting side-saddle on the desk, is visiting her boyfriend; she has primped herself, but there are rivulets of black makeup streaking her face. A large woman and her larger son huddle on the other end of the room, squashing their heads together to share the telephone.

"Just take a seat in front of the window, Mr. Holmes, and pick up the phone to speak to him. He'll be here shortly."

I nod and sit down in the hard plastic chair, focusing my attention on appearing calm. It is strange, what I'm feeling in anticipation of seeing Jim Moriarty. I am rightly angry, rightly hesitant, but there is also  _excitement_ pooling in my stomach. I emit a strange laugh and receive a frightened glance from the girlfriend.

I straighten my features when a short, dark-haired man is led, handcuffed, into the room. He looks the same as he did nearly three years ago, all grin and gleaming eyes. He locks gazes with me when he sits down, and only looks away to say something to the warden standing behind him. The woman unlocks the cuffs and retreats to the back of the room, crossing her arms. Jim Moriarty picks up his telephone and licks his lips.

"Fancy seeing you here, Sherlock." The smile on his face grows. "I'm just kidding. I knew you'd be here sooner or later. Tell me, Sherlock, how are you feeling? A bit woozy?"

"How are  _you_ feeling?" I ask. "Presumably better than when we last met."

"The last time we met wasn't so long ago. I think you mean the last time you were awake for it," Moriarty says. He lifts his eyebrows slightly.

"I have questions for you," I say evenly. "I'm done with your games, you must understand."

Moriarty cocks his head to the right and lilts, "Questions? Where to begin? Oh, but there's so much to tell!"

I shrug. "All right, then. How did you fake your death?"

Moriarty tuts. "That's no fun." He presses the tip of his index finger to the glass and traces a line over my face. "I think _you_ should explain how I did it."

"Very well." I think back to the rooftop and muffle the memory of John's shouts. "I know you had an accomplice, a very skilled and precise shooter. I assume that he or she shot a blood pack affixed to the back of your coat collar when you 'shot' yourself. You counted on my panic--a regrettable error on my part--and simply had your body swapped out for another before anyone found you."

Moriarty looks positively ecstatic. "Now why did you have to ask, Sherlock? I quite like your explanation!"

"Like it or not, is it correct?"

"You'll never know," he says in a singsong voice. "Next question."

I badly want to steeple my fingers, but I can't without letting go of the phone. I settle for tapping one hand against my trouser leg. "What did you use to sedate me?"

"Even if I told you the name, you wouldn't know it. Very experimental stuff, Sherlock. Very exclusive. Lucky you! You got to try it out before anyone else!" Moriarty stares at me, suddenly frowning. "The question you _want_ to ask is 'why,' of course."

My anger swells. "Explain yourself!" I demand. "We both know very well that you're only here because you want to be."

Moriarty's smile returns. He leans back in his chair. "Or perhaps the higher powers wanted it to be so."

I snort. "I never took you for a religious man."

"Religious man?" Moriarty repeats. "Me? But I'm not!"

I notice suddenly that he is tapping the fingers of his left hand on the desk. I try to count the taps, but a wave of nausea overtakes me. The phone slips out of my hand. White sparkles flicker in the corners of my vision. I swallow and close my eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice comes out tinny through the discarded phone. "What's wrong with you?"

I open my eyes and glare at Moriarty fiercely. I pick up the phone. "You tell me," I spit into it. "What was in that drug?"

Moriarty shrugs. "As I said, 'higher powers.'" The tapping resumes. A code? Another red herring?

I squint at him, my heart picking up speed. "What... what are you saying?" A soft tap, a more forceful one. Two hard taps, one soft tap--

Moriarty stops tapping. He tilts his head and looks up at me with wide eyes. "I think It's time for me to go." Moriarty sets the telephone back in its hook, stands, and turns to the warden.

"Wait!" I shout, standing up. I pound on the window. "Wait!" The other three visitors look up at me with their pale faces. They're too drained to be shocked; their expressions are ones of wary interest.

My eyes snap back to Moriarty, who smirks smirks. He picks up his phone again and raises an eyebrow. "Yes, Sherlock?" The warden is eyeing us suspiciously.

"What are you trying to tell me?" I demand. "Is there someone else working with you?

"Oh, brilliant Sherlock." Moriarty licks his lips, staring straight into my eyes. "Genius, brilliant Sherlock... I have one thing to say to you: Don't be ordinary. You're much more fun than that. Much more..." He shrugs. "Goodbye."

He allows the warden to reapply his handcuffs. She leads him out of the room. For a moment, I cannot move.

"'Higher powers,'" I mouth silently. My chest aches around the gunshot scar. An idea forms in my head, a horrific idea. Oh, God. I need John. John needs me.


	16. Paradiso: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“La plus belle des ruses du diable est de vous persuader qu'il n'existe pas."_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "The finest trick of the devil is to persuade you that he does not exist."
> 
> -Charles Baudelaire

I call Mycroft and confirm that John and Mary have just returned home with the baby. As I direct the cabbie to their house, everything suddenly makes sense.

_Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the elephant in the room. Asleep for years, it has finally risen from its slumber, and it is so very hungry. Go ahead and throw peanuts, but don't let your children near; it might eat them, too._

Strangely enough, the man I saw as my greatest enemy was the catalyst to my revelation. Over the course of my career, I have become acquainted with a number of shorthands, ciphers, and codes. Morse code is no exception, and unless I am severely mistaken, Moriarty was tapping out the letters "a" and "g" during our conversation.

AGRA. "Higher powers." The answer is so obvious that I want to bang my head on the window of the cab.

Mary isn't working for Moriarty like Mycroft and I thought.

Moriarty is working for Mary.

I had never figured it out before because of my deeply-ingrained belief that genius loves an audience. After all, I surely enjoy flaunting my intelligence, and Mycroft is no stranger to asserting his intellectual dominance. To me, Jim Moriarty made absolute sense. He was just like me: two consulting geniuses, two brilliant men who wanted to show the world that they were  _better_ , although they walked on opposite paths.

But Mary is not like that. Mary wears a shell, and no one has ever seen what lies under it. Mary doesn't show off; she sits back and watches her handiwork, sends Moriarty to do the dangerous parts.

Jim Moriarty. A man who has a childhood history with Sherlock Holmes and a penchant for theatrics. A merciless killer with a sense of humor. The perfect puppet.

If John hadn't idiotically burned that jump drive, I might have had my revelation ages ago. I love him, but he can be extremely short-sighted at times. For weeks I begged him to read it, only to be met with stony glances and stern refusals. I even managed to steal it from him at one point, but he caught me before I was able to download its contents. After that, he stopped carrying it about; he told me he hid it somewhere in his house. Perhaps there was nothing worthwhile on the jump drive, but we'll never know now.

I huff and try to calm myself. Inhale, exhale. Deduce the cabbie's life story. Inhale, exhale. Deduce the man on that street corner. Inhale, exhale. Shit. Shit, shit,  _shit._ For God's sake, John, why did you have to be so  _stupid_? No, don't blame John. It's all my fault. I'm the idiot.

Part of me wonders if Mary got pregnant as a form of protection. I might have killed her after she shot me, if not for the fact that she was carrying John's daughter. I am not a kind person, barely even human I've been told, but I could not bring myself to do it.

The cab lurches over a bump in the road. It drags me out of my thoughts. I look outside the window and see a bald man taking a stroll down the pavement. I have to blink several times to make sure that it is not  _that_ bald man. The cab speeds up and we leave the man behind. It definitely was  _not_ the man from my dreams. No. The man out there was an entirely different person, a _real_ person...

We pull up in front of John's house. I pay the cabbie with shaking hands and scramble out of the car. I stride to the door, arrange my face into a mask, and knock.

 

"Sherlock." John's voice is flat. His eyes are tinged with red. Has he been crying? Perhaps he is just tired.

"Stop staring at me, Sherlock." John forces a tiny smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Yes, he is tired, but there is something else in his face. John Watson looks defeated. Empty. A thrill runs through me, both excited and afraid. Is it possible that he now knows what I have just discovered?

"Oh, for God's sake," I say with my usual snark. "Your wife just gave birth, and the customary behavior for friends is to visit and see the child."

"Who's there, John?" Mary's voice comes from the kitchen inside.

"It's Sherlock," John replies without turning his head. He suddenly reaches up and hugs me, not passionately, almost awkwardly. I squirm slightly until he whispers in my ear, "Her eyes."

"What?" I whisper.

John cocks his head as if he is confused. "Did you say something?"

Mary approaches from behind him. She is wearing a blue bathrobe over a bright red pajama set. "Hello, Sherlock!" she says cheerfully.

It takes only a second to hide the anger that wells up when I see her, but hope I wasn't a second too slow.

"Sherlock's here to see Katherine," John says. His voice is suddenly cheery, and the smile on his face looks genuine. I keep myself from staring in surprise and nod at Mary.

"How sweet of you," Mary says. Her eyes flicker quickly down my body, perhaps sizing up her prey. I examine her in turn. Her eyes look normal, clear and blue. "She's asleep right now, but you're welcome to come in. I'll make us all some coffee."

John closes the door behind me.

"You don't know how difficult it was to avoid caffeine during the pregnancy," Mary chatters as she prepares three cups. "I am not a morning person, you know, and I normally need at least some tea before work. But I suppose it was all worth it for a healthy baby girl. Right, John?"

"Right," John agrees. He kisses Mary on the cheek and smiles at her fondly.

"I just remembered that it is also customary to bring a gift for the baby," I say. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Oh, it's all right. We know that your mind is busy with other things," Mary says. "After all--"

The sound of a baby's cries interrupt Mary. Mary smiles softly. "Looks like the little one needs me."

"May I see her?" I ask.

Mary chews on her bottom lip. "Well, I don't want to bother her too much."

John makes a face at Mary that somehow looks both annoyed and endeared. "Come on, Mary, that's why he's here! And she's obviously awake now."

Mary pauses and eventually nods. "Okay. Sure. Why not?" She laughs. "Sorry, Sherlock. New mum and all. I'm a bit too overprotective. I wish I could just keep her in a little cocoon all the time."

"Many new mothers are similar," I say.

"I'll go get her." Mary walks up the stairs, leaving John and me briefly alone.

"Don't say anything right now," John murmurs. I can barely hear him. "I'll come over tonight."

I nod slightly. "Lestrade's given me an interesting new case," I say at a normal volume.

"Already?" John plays along.

"Yes, he called me this morning. It's quite fascinating."

Mary comes down the stairs holding a bundled infant. Katherine is no longer crying, just making those alien gurgling sounds as babies are apt to do.

"Well, hello, Katherine," I say.

Mary holds Katherine against her breast and pulls the knitted cap snug on her head.

If Mary's eyes aren't what John is talking about, I assume he is referring to Katherine's. However, I cannot see the baby's face from her position.

"I've never been too familiar with babies," I say honestly. "She is very... nice though."

Mary laughs at this. I edge closer to her and reach out, awkwardly petting the baby's head over the cap.

"She's not a cat, Sherlock," John says.

At the sound of John's voice, Katherine turns her head very slightly, but it is enough. Now, I understand John's behavior. He doesn't know about Mary's history like I suspected. He has just made the elementary observation that the baby's eyes are brown.


	17. Paradiso: Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this update took forever. This chapter was difficult to write, and I am a literal garbage can. Though, I suppose a garbage can writing anything is pretty impressive, so...

Mary's eyes meet mine as I look up from the baby.

 _You won't tell John,_ she says silently.

I nod, more of a head jerk.

John watches us but says nothing. He scoops Katherine out of Mary's arms and says, "Well, she's knackered again already. Wish I could sleep like her. Want me to get her settled in her crib again?"

"Yes," Mary chirps, kissing the baby's forehead.

"Take your time, John," I say. My tone is sarcastic but I catch John's eye to indicate that I really mean it.

My phone  _pings_. Mycroft.

_Are you absolutely sure about this? If you are wrong, be prepared to accept the consequences. -M_

_I'm sure. -S_

_We have one chance to bring her in, Sherlock. If we can't convict her, then we've no hope. She'll flee. -M_

_Which wouldn't be so terrible. -S_

_Until she hurts John when he gets in her way. I don't personally care, but I know you do. -M_

_Mycroft, I'm sure about this. -S_

_Just don't be rash. Also, we have officers questioning Moriarty as we metaphorically speak. I thought it was a good back-up for when your plan inevitably fails. However, his testimony will only go so far. We need solid proof, Sherlock. Remember that. -M_

Mary watches me. "Got a new case, have you?"

"Yes," I tell her, looking straight into her eyes. "Missing woman from Soho." I delete all the messages, slip my phone into my coat pocket, and press a speed-dial button: Mycroft's phone number.

Mary smiles at me. "Sherlock, you haven't had your coffee yet! Sit down. John'll be back soon."

I accept the coffee cup she thrusts at me and sit down on their sofa. I must admit that the caffeine is welcome after the day I've had. It's not cocaine, but at least Molly won't slap me for it.

Mary sits next to me as John disappears upstairs. We can hear him singing to the baby.

"I don't think he knows," Mary says under her breath.

I consider playing dumb, but Mary is too perceptive for that. "He's a doctor, Mary. Of course he knows."

Mary sighs. "Well, he hasn't mentioned anything. Wouldn't he have?"

I drink my coffee, thinking. Mary poses a good question. Why wouldn't John have left already? Perhaps John can sense more about the situation than I assumed, and he knows to be afraid of Mary. As he should be.

"Mary, why?" I ask in a whisper, switching tactics. "Why would you do this to John?"

Mary rolls her eyes and thunks her mug on the coffee table. "Oh, God, Sherlock. I didn't cheat on John."

I raise my eyebrows.

"I'm serious. It was a sperm donor," she hisses.

"A donor?" I repeat, startled. "But... why?"

Mary is not exhibiting any classic signs of lying; her posture is natural, her eye contact is normal, and her breathing is regular. However, I am not so quick to accept Mary's words as fact.

"Sherlock, it may be hard for someone like _you_ to understand this," Mary whispers, "but loving someone changes you. I cannot--I  _will_ not--give up John. I knew he'd learn about my horrid past eventually, so I faked pregnancy symptoms at the wedding. You may not have trusted _me_ , I reasoned, but I knew that you would trust your own deductions."

I glare at her but don't retort.

Mary continues, "John is a good man. If not for the baby, he probably would have left me after I, well, after I shot you. But he's not the type to abandon his child." Mary smirks slightly. "It's often difficult for fathers to win custody battles, you know. John wouldn't want to be separated from his daughter before she was even born. So after the wedding, I realized that I had to get pregnant. I tried to get pregnant with John's child first. The so-called 'sex holiday' seemed a good opportunity, but nothing happened. When time started running out, I used the only other option I had: a donor. Like I said, Sherlock, I haven't cheated. No one would have realized if the donor had actually had blue eyes, like he was supposed to." Her voice rises in anger, but she quickly takes a breath and composes herself.

"You never needed a baby." I pause for a moment to sip at the coffee, listening for John upstairs. The singing continues. "He hasn't left you now, even though he _thinks_ you cheated on him. Apparently, he's utterly and absolutely devoted to you, no matter what you do."

"I would love for that to be the truth, but John does _not_ think I cheated on him," Mary argues. "He suspects nothing."

I tap my lips with a finger. "Well, I suppose there could be another reason he hasn't left you."

Mary's eyes narrow. Her face seems sharper all of a sudden. "And what would that be?"

"He's afraid."

Mary tilts her head up and laughs. "Afraid? You're joking, right?"

"Fear would be a natural reaction when suspecting that your spouse is the boss of Jim Moriarty."

Mary freezes for the slightest moment, then continues in stride, "I worked with some unsavory people, Sherlock, but Moriarty was not one of them."

My hand reaches out and clamps onto her wrist. Mary gasps.

I hiss, "Don't play dumb with me, Mary. Moriarty told me everything."

Mary wrenches her hand away from me and stands up. "That bloody fuck Moriarty will say anything to tear people apart! How do you not understand that he's playing with your head!"

I imagine Mycroft as he must be right now, standing in his office, face in hand, phone on the desk. He's likely disappointed, but not surprised.

 _Of course you would bugger this up._ The voice in my head sounds like John's. _Of course Mycroft shouldn't have trusted you. Of course Mary would never confess to you._   _You had one bloody chance to get a confession, and now it's over._

"John will believe me," I say. "John trusts me. Why don't you be honest for his sake? He'll figure it out eventually." The lullaby has stopped, and I hear John's footsteps on the top of the stairwell. I stand up to meet him, but once I'm on my feet I feel light headed. I lurch forward and have to catch myself on the arm of the couch. My movements become slow.

"What..." I manage.

Mary plucks my coffee cup off the table and leans in close to my ear. She breathes, "You're as smart as they say, Sherlock, but no one will believe you ever again. Why would they when you can't even keep track of what's real anymore?"

My vision blurs as specks of white close in from all sides. The face of the bald man swims into my vision. He winks.

I hear Mary walk to the kitchen, hear the sound of the sink. She's rinsing out the coffee cup. _  
_

Just as John comes into her view (I can estimate from his footsteps), Mary screams, "Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

I lose touch with the world.

 

I feel heavy, thick, wrapped in velvet. People I know flicker past me: Mycroft, Mother, Lestrade, Mrs. Turner, Irene Adler. Friends and near strangers. The visions are all talking at once, their voices mixing and melding into a cacophony of sound. I think I try to talk to some of them. I don't know if they respond.

Mary's voice rises above the others at points:

"He was accusing me of the most awful things, and then he just fainted!"

"He's lost his mind. Whatever was in that drug Moriarty gave him..."

The murmur of voices peters out slowly, and suddenly I wake up. John's face is mere centimeters from mine. He's pressing two fingers to my neck, checking the evenness of my pulse.

"John," I croak.

John's face collapses into relief. He lifts his hand from my neck. "Oh, thank God, Sherlock."

"Are you all right?" Mary asks concernedly. I shift my eyes. Mary is sitting in an armchair to my right. From the angle of the sunlight bathing us, I deduce that I was unconscious for no more than twenty minutes.

I don't answer Mary. I pray that John's presence kept Mary from fishing through my pockets to search my mobile phone. I reach into my pocket and see that my call to Mycroft ended; either he hung up, or someone hung up for me. I look through my texts to see a text from Mycroft. The message is listed as already read.

_Qba'g qevax nalguvat. V nz fraqvat uryc. -M_

I can't help but smile. It is an extremely simple code, born from the childhood days of solving cryptograms in magazines, but hopefully enough to have kept Mary from understanding. I assume she only had a short moment to peek at my messages when John wasn't looking.

I look up to see that Mary is glowering at me.

"You know that there's no way out of this," I say to her, my voice still husky. I sit up despite feeling weak.

John narrows his eyes at me. "Sherlock, what--"

"Mary has some things to tell you," I say to John. "How about it, Mary? Care to share?"

"Don't listen to him, John" Mary says quickly, standing up and setting her palm gently on John's shoulder. "Not to be rude, Sherlock, but you've been through a lot of stress. You've been lying here babbling for the past fifteen minutes. It's hardly right for you to go on accusing me of things when you don't even know who you're talking to!"

"Whom," I mutter.

"I need to confess," John says. His Adam's apple moves up and down. "I... I already know that the baby isn't mine."

Mary blinks rapidly. She reaches out to touch John and then thinks better of it, leaving her arm swinging at her side. "John, love, I-I didn't cheat on you. It was a sperm donor."

I groan. "That's not the _important_ confession," I interrupt, but John raises his hand to shush me.

"If that's true, Mary, then why wouldn't you choose one who looked like me?" John sighs and shakes his head. "I trusted you. Stop lying to me, Mary. You cheated; I _know_ you did. Tell me the truth." John has that half-smile on his face that is not really a smile; he looks rather murderous. I can't help but find it incredibly attractive, though only when it's not directed toward me.

"I didn't cheat!" Mary's face reddens. "It was a donor!" she shouts. "It's just that I told him to get me a blue-eyed donor, and he fucked up!"

John and I share a glance. Mary's face turns even redder than before, though now the anger is mixed with surprise, and perhaps even fear.

"Who is 'he?'" John asks slowly.

I smirk, rubbing my hands together in glee. "And that's why you allowed him to be arrested," I say. "He didn't follow your orders correctly, so you sent him to jail."

John gapes at me. "What are you on about?"

"Moriarty," I say. "Moriarty is working for Mary."

Mary points at me. "Stop it, Sherlock. Clearly, you can't differentiate between real life and fantasy anymore." She turns to John. "I don't know what kind of drug Moriarty gave him, but it's made him mad, John! Can't you see that? Katherine may not be your daughter, but if you think for one minute that  _I_ have anything to do with the man who almost killed you, you're mad yourself."

John's eyes dart from me to Mary, and back again. "Sherlock," he says. "Are... are you sure?"

Mary grimaces. "Sherlock is  _insane_ , John!"

I shrug. "I guess we'll allow the court to decide that," I say. "It seems you have company."

A second later, someone pounds on the front door. "Police! Open up!"

John and Mary jump and turn to watch me stand, albeit shakily. I work the feeling back into my legs as I walk to the door. I open it and allow a handful of police officers to enter the house, flanked by Mycroft.

Mary stands stock still in the middle of the living room as an officer pulls her arms behind her back and handcuffs her. Her eyes dart about like a caged animal's, and eventually rest on me. I have to look away from the fury in her glare.

"Mycroft," I say, directing my attention instead to my brother. "Thank you for your quick action. Now, if you wouldn't mind swabbing my mouth..."

Mycroft sighs and runs a cotton swab along the inside of my mouth. He places it in a sterile plastic tube and caps it shut. "We're charging her for your poisoning and kidnapping in allegiance with Moriarty... but this isn't over," Mycroft whispers. "If Moriarty can be acquitted, then surely Mary can. A woman with a baby is sympathetic to a jury. No one likes to think of a child without its mother. And Sherlock... the word is out about your recent situation. I know you're having strange thoughts about reality, but you cannot let anyone know that. Your...  _episodes_ stay between you and me."

I'm only half listening to him. My thoughts are with John, who is standing in front of the couch with a blank stare. He looks at me helplessly as an officer marches Mary out the front door.

"There's only one person I really need to convince," I murmur.

Mycroft follows my gaze and shakes his head. "Not if you care about your safety."


	18. Epilogo (La Vita Reale?)

_One year later..._

It's not unusual for me to wake up soaked in my own sweat, unsure of where I am. Just because I've been in the same reality for a year now does little to diminish the nightmares. The fact that Mary is out there somewhere, free, does even less.

On this particular night, I wake to find that I have thrown all of the sheets and blankets to the other side of the bed. Despite the snow outside, my body is a furnace.

I sit up and pat down the other side of the bed. My throat thickens.

"John?" I whisper.

I am in the room by myself. My head is swimming. I close my eyes and massage my forehead, taking deep breaths. I am still experiencing side effects from the drug and my extended time unconscious. I probably will for the rest of my life.

I stare at the empty side of the bed, where I could have sworn John was sleeping just moments prior. It's a relief to wake up and realize that something horrible was actually just a dream, but to find out that something wonderful never existed... What was it that turned John away from me? I don't remember. I search my mind frantically. John didn't believe me about Mary? Was that it? It kills me to not remember.

The door cracks open and a beam of light spills into the room. I hold my breath and cannot help but stare when John Watson ambles in and collapses on the other side of the bed.

It takes him a moment to realize I'm awake. "Sherlock?"

I emit a strangled sound. "You... you're here. I thought it was fake... again."

John rubs my sweat-drenched back and says, "I'm here. I'm real. Don't worry. This is real. If you ever wake up and I'm not here, it's because I've gone to the loo or something. Okay, Sherlock? Please don't doubt me. I've never doubted you, right?"

I sigh and cover my face with my hands. "So you've told me at least a dozen times. It doesn't seem to help much. I keep thinking you're gone." I reach out and grasp his hand. He squeezes mine back.

John lies down and faces me. I do the same.

"Listen," he says, his breath warm on my face. "I was thinking that maybe a change of scenery would do us good."

"London is the only place I belong, John."

"Not if you're constantly waking up thinking you're in a mental hospital," he counters. "Or, even worse, thinking that I've abandoned you. I don't like it."

"And you think waking up in some new place would  _help_ with my confusion?"

John is quiet for a moment. "Let me tell you something, Sherlock. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that Mary is going to come back, or that Moriarty will escape jail  _again_. Aren't you?"

"I don't feel fear," I growl.

"Like hell you don't." John laughs softly but it turns into a sigh. "But really, though, Sherlock... I'm afraid. And part of me thinks that there's nothing left for me in London."

I am about to protest when John adds, "Except, of course, for you. But that's why you should come with me."

"You sound certain."

"Only if you'll come with me."

"Humph. I'd go mad without cases to solve."

I realize that many consider me to be mad already. My favorite newspaper article from the past year was "Mad  _Hat-_ ter: Sherlock Holmes Insane?" It was my favorite because they listed John as my "significant other," a term I abhor, but I appreciated the acknowledgment. Honestly, though, I've had enough with the hat puns.

"Just think about it," John says. He hums softly and nestles his head against the pillow. Our hands are still linked.

I lean over and kiss him softly on the forehead. John reaches up to return the kiss properly.

We break apart and I say, "All right, then, John."

"All right what?"

"You've convinced me."

He chuckles. "That was easier than I expected."

"On one condition."

I hear John's sharp inhale. "Yes?"

"Find me a place where I can still solve cases. Sherlock Holmes without murder is like... a bird without wings... That was cliche, but you understand."

"Oh." John laughs, his voice higher pitched than normal. "Of course."

I frown at him even though he can't see it in the dark. "What did you think I was going to ask?"

"What?"

"You got all... odd."

"I..." John shifts so he is facing the ceiling. "Don't worry about it. Now go back to sleep. I have to get up for work tomorrow."

"What? I thought you were helping me with the case tomorrow!"

"I told you, I'd help after work. Don't you listen to anything I say?"

I grunt and close my eyes. A few seconds later, I open them and tap John on the shoulder.

"Did you think I was proposing marriage, John?"

John sighs. "Sherlock, go to sleep."

"I suppose we could if you wanted to."

John tries to hide his laugh, but fails. "Real romantic, Sherlock. No, I know that wouldn't be your style. Plus, I've tried the whole marriage thing, and, well..."

"It was less than satisfactory," I finish for him.

"Far less." John reaches up and pushes the hair back from my forehead. "Maybe it's something we can consider from, you know, a  _practical_ standpoint. Later. Right now, all I need is for you to be happy. And to trust me. I'm not going to leave you. I love you, after all."

"I keep trying to store that idea in my Mind Palace, but it doesn't function properly anymore. I'm not sure if it ever will again." I exhale slowly. "I cannot trust my mind anymore. It's one of the worst things that could happen to someone like me."

"I know. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

I shrug awkwardly while lying on my side. "It wasn't all bad, though. It brought us together, didn't it?"

"That it did."

We are quiet for a few minutes. John's breathing evens. Just when my consciousness begins to slip away, John speaks:

"You don't ever doubt that this is real life anymore, though, do you, Sherlock?"

I still see white flashes in the corners of my vision. Sometimes, I feel as if I'm being watched. Every time I see a bald man, I cringe. Yet...

"I find that I don't really care," I admit. "I'm happy now. That wouldn't have been satisfactory for me in the past, as a man of logic, but now... I suppose it's all right."

"You really don't care?"

"If it's not real, then it's the best dream I've ever had." I lean forward so that our foreheads are touching. "I love you."

"Love you, too." John pulls me closer to him. I can feel his face crinkle into a smile. "I can assure you that it's either a wonderful reality or a wonderful dream."

"Could it be both?"

"Hmm, I don't think so..." John yawns audibly and sags into the mattress. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end! I hope you enjoyed. I want to thank everyone for reading and leaving kudos and comments. Thanks as well for sticking with the craziness of this fic.
> 
> If you liked this story, then feel free to check out my series "This Thing of Darkness," which is far less trippy and much more based in canon. If you didn't like this story, well, thanks for sticking around until the end anyway. :P
> 
> Unless my thesis work swallows me whole (and that's a big "unless"), I will be starting a Sherlock fic set in the Fallout: New Vegas universe. Oh, and did I mention it will be fem!lock? So yeah! New things are good. :)


End file.
